


silly things, foolish things

by macsdennis



Category: Emma (2020), Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Modern Era, emma and george have a lot of feelings, knightley is wonderful in any era, neither of them know how to deal with it, put those feelings back where they came from or so help me, reluctant romance ensues, slow-burn, will be multi-chaptered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 82,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25691704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macsdennis/pseuds/macsdennis
Summary: “You have to admit, I have a talent.”“A talent for what, meddling in other people’s affairs?” George quipped dryly. He turned around to start wiping down the surface of the cake counter, ignoring Emma’s affronted look.“It’s not meddling! That’s horrible. It’s just...” She searched for the right word. “Helping. I just like seeing my friends happy.”
Relationships: George Knightley/Emma Woodhouse
Comments: 146
Kudos: 218





	1. Chapter 1

“Would you look at that?” Emma said dreamily, resting her chin on the palm of her hand. At five o’clock in the afternoon, Hartfield Café was mostly empty, save for the happy couple sat in the corner by the large window, intimately leaning towards each other over two cups of coffee. “Don’t they just look perfect together?”

The ‘they’ in question were Emma’s friend Taylor and her new girlfriend Wes, another friend. ‘They’ had been Emma’s newest matchmaking project, which had gone swimmingly - a few strategic texts, a couple of phone calls, a blind date... and here they were, engrossed in one another, only a month after meeting each other. 

Emma felt a presence behind her, complete with the very familiar scent of George, before being joined by the tall man who leant over the counter next to her.

“Do they know that it’s closing time soon?”

“Oh, leave them be.” Emma tipped her head to the side slightly and smiled at her friends. “We can clear up around them.” She turned around and clasped her hands together excitedly. “Don’t you think I’ve done well?”

George stood up straight, wiping the front of his apron absentmindedly. “Done well at what?” He deadpanned.

“Don’t be thick, George.” Emma rolled her eyes, something she found herself doing more and more when she spent time with George. Which, unfortunately, was a lot. “Matchmaking! I’m the reason they got together, and look how happy they are. You have to admit, I have a talent.”

“A talent for what, meddling in other people’s affairs?” George quipped dryly. He turned around to start wiping down the surface of the cake counter, ignoring Emma’s affronted look. 

“It’s not meddling! That’s horrible. It’s just...” She searched for the right word. “Helping. I just like seeing my friends happy.”

“Would you say I’m your friend?”

Emma frowned. “I guess. If I had to.”

“And do you want to make me happy?”

“Um...”

“Hypothetically.”

“Sure.”

“And do you know what would make me happy?”

“What?”

“If you stopped meddling with other people’s business and helped me clean up the café.” 

Emma was about to reply something cutting, but George managed to escape by making his way towards a cluster of tables that some customers had pushed together during the busy day. Instead, she grumbled to herself and picked up where he had left off on the cake counter.

George Knightley had become almost a permanent, and mostly unwelcome, fixture in Emma Woodhouse’s life over the last eleven years. When Emma was nine years old, still at that time with a healthy father and a living mother, her sister Isabella had brought her boyfriend round for tea. Isabella, at sixteen, seemed impossibly glamorous to Emma, and was very proud of the fact that she had a boyfriend who was a whole year older than her! Emma didn’t remember much of the few dinners where John Knightley sat self-consciously at their table, no doubt answering prying questions from both Mr. and Mrs. Woodhouse, sweating nervously all the while. What Emma did remember, however, was the summer barbecue at the Knightley’s house. It had been the first introduction of the two families - whilst Emma’s parents had exchanged happy greetings with the Knightley’s, Emma (who had been shy enough to hide slightly behind her mother), remembered locking eyes with a tall boy with blonde hair, who looked a few years older than herself. This was George Knightley, John’s younger brother. 

The George that Emma knew today, at the age of twenty-four, was a far cry from the pubescent boy she had first met all those years ago. She had to admit, he had grown up into rather an Adonis.

But, by God, was he the bane of her life. 

“Just go home if you’re going to grumble at me so much,” Emma called across the café to her reluctant companion. “Oh, and when I say home, I mean your house and not mine.”

She heard him tut from behind a newly stacked pile of chairs. “You’re acting like I spend every waking minute at your house.”

“You do!”

“I do not! Why would I prolong our contact more than necessary when I know it irritates you so much?”

“Because you live to irritate me?”

“Believe it or not, Emma,” and suddenly George was behind her. Emma turned around and looked up at him defiantly. He was smirking, a rare expression for George. “The world doesn’t completely revolve around you.” 

“And why shouldn’t it?”

“Because not everybody wants to devote their time to a spoilt little rich girl who-“

“Who what? Finish that sentence.”

“I’m not having this argument with you right now.”

“You started it.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did-“

“Um,” a timid voice sounded out from behind the counter. Slightly startled, Emma looked around to see Taylor and Wes stood watching the pair. Emma hadn’t realised how close she and George had been standing; they both stepped apart simultaneously. 

“Sorry,” Emma chuckles, refusing to look at George. “Are you two done here?”

“Yes, thanks.” Wes smiled and went to look in her purse. “Hang on, I’ll just find my card...”

“No, honestly, let me!” Taylor tried to stop her girlfriend from paying - there was a short and adorable scuffle, until Emma spoke over both of them.

“Look, it’s on the house. We’re all friends.” She grinned. “Tay, text me and we’ll sort something out soon, it’s been ages since we’ve all gone out!”

Taylor beamed and tilted her head. “Em, you’re an angel. And yes, definitely, let’s do something soon.” 

The two women left, arms around each other. Once again, Emma leaned over the counter and watched them go. There was a silence. 

“What is it, George?”

“What?” He feigned shock. “I said nothing.”

“Exactly. Spit it out.”

“All I can say is that Bates won’t be happy you didn’t charge them for those coffees.”

Emma made a dismissive noise and carried on picking up mugs. “Oh, please. I practically run this shop, she won’t care. Plus Tay’s an old friend from college. Bates will too busy getting ready for the oh-so-wonderful Jane Fairfax to make a visit.”

Even Emma could hear the bitterness in her own voice when talking about her mental manager’s dearly beloved niece; Emma honestly didn’t see what all the fuss was about Jane Fairfax. George pounced on it immediately. 

“Why do you hate Jane so much? You barely know her.”

“George, this town is so tiny that you’re forced to know everyone. I may have only met her a couple of times, but I certainly feel as if I’ve known her my whole life. She’s a royal pain in the arse and a stuck up madam.”

George raised his eyebrows. “Takes one to know one.”

Scandalised, Emma whipped around, but before she could make an indignant reply, the door to the kitchen was swinging shut, and George was nowhere to be seen. 

“Wanker.”

*

Irritatingly, George had left after doing most of the afternoon clear up. 

As if Emma couldn’t handle it herself. 

The air was heavy and warm as she made the shirt walk through the village back home in the late afternoon. It was the very end of summer, but the air was cloudy, threatening a storm that would hopefully clear away some of the oppressive heat. 

Emma always passed George’s little block of flats on her way home. An eyesore in the quaint little town of Highbury, it had taken years for the block to finally be approved by the town council. Emma remembered her mother - she must have been young if her mother was still a part of the memory - bickering lightheartedly with her husband, insisting that a block of flats was the right step towards modernising what was practically a model village. Mr. Woodhouse had grumbled to himself, much as Emma found herself doing after an argument with George. 

His flat was right at the top of the stone monstrosity, which was only a three minute journey from Emma’s own cottage. Her father’s cottage, she should say. On this particularly day, she passed the block and gave it a menacing glare, before realising that George would not be able to see her. She suddenly felt foolish, and hurried on home. 

“Dad?” The door banged shut behind her. “I’m home!”

There wasn’t a sound for a moment - until a slightly stooped figure jumped from one of the bottom stairs onto the floor with a crash. Anyone else would have jumped out of their skin at such a spectacle, but Emma, after twenty years living with him, was used to her father’s quirks.

“What was that bang?” Mr. Woodhouse straightened up and looked around suspiciously. 

“The door, Dad.” Emma leaned forward and kissed her father on his grizzled cheek. “Sorry, I shut it too hard. How was your day?”

“Terrible. Absolutely terrible.” Mr. Woodhouse grouched quietly as he went into the cluttered living room, throwing himself down on the overstuffed armchair. Emma smiled and sat down on the sofa, dumping her bag at her feet. 

“And why is that?”

“I was looking at the weather forecast over the next few months.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Snow is predicted.”

Emma blinked. “It’s the end of August.”

“Yes, but! Snow in...” he counted silently. “Three months. It cannot be borne. It will not do!”

“Oh, Dad.” Emma laughed quietly and rubbed her eyes. It really had been a long day. “Let’s try not to worry about it just yet.” 

Emma Woodhouse was not ashamed to admit that her best friend was her father. Mr. Woodhouse was not a geriatric, nowhere near that yet. He was eccentric, which put off a few people. However, Highbury was such a tightly knit community that, as Emma so often reminded George, everyone knew everyone. Mr. Woodhouse was known around the village as the eccentric old man who lived with his daughter in the cottage on the corner, who hated the cold and loved to birdwatch. He was well-loved by most, and Emma would not have had it any other way.

“Have you any plans tonight, dear?” Me. Woodhouse enquired vaguely, rubbing at a small stain on his waistcoat. Although he was a retired librarian and spent most of his time at home, Mr. Woodhouse refused to purchase any ‘casual wear’, and always insisted on wearing the smartest outfits. 

“No, just thought we could stay in and watch some television. I’ll cook something nice if you want?”

“Sounds perfect.”

All was quiet for a moment. Emma got out her phone and started to check Twitter, before the silence was interrupted.

“George is coming round.”

“What?” 

This was typical of George. Emma felt like she saw him more at her house than his own flat - which was, in fairness, quite grotty.

“Why is he coming round?” Emma fought to keep the whining tone out of her voice, but could hear it creeping in. “He’s always round here, anyone would think he’s homeless.”

“Emma, he’s part of the family!”

“No he’s not, he-“

“Well, I see him as a member of our family. I like the boy very much. And anyway, he’s interested in my bird-watching.”

He actually was as well. The creep.

“Plus,” Mr. Woodhouse smiled placidly. “He’s only just got back from travelling, wouldn’t you like to see him?”

“I saw him today, Dad. He was helping in the café.”

“Oh, well, there you go. Isn’t he a nice young man.” 

“I’m not cooking for him. He always picks faults in my cooking.”

“Well, my dear. You have many talents, but I don’t think you inherited your mother’s skills in the kitchen.” 

The sound of the front door opening carried through into the living room. 

“Hello? It’s me!”

Emma rolled her eyes and got up, moving into the hallway. George Knightley was stood by the now closed front door, two carrier bags in his hands.

“What’s in those?” Emma pointed at the bags. 

“Cooking supplies.” George said shortly. “Come on. You can come and help me make dinner.”

He moved past Emma. She raised her eyebrows and followed him, affronted. 

“You hate my cooking.”

“I’ll lead, you follow.”

*

The dinner surprisingly ended up being very pleasant. George knew his way around the kitchen as if he lived there, and, once Emma had got over her pride at being told what to do, was able to direct his companion into making a very acceptable bolognese sauce. Mr. Woodhouse was slightly suspicious of this culinary triumph, but just as Emma was about to come clean, George insisted that she had made it herself with very little help from him. He dropped her a wink when Mr. Woodhouse was engrossed in a new forkful of spaghetti. 

It was times like this, when the lights were soft and the wine was flowing and everyone was happy, that Emma looked at George and admitted to herself that she really didn’t mind having him around so much. Although not a brotherly figure, he was a nice replacement for Isabella, who had moved out with John when they got married - far too young, Mr. Woodhouse would always add when the subject arose. Although Isabella and John only lived just outside of Highbury, their five young children - yes, five! - kept them away from the village almost constantly. George and Mr. Woodhouse had always got along famously; when George had left for university six years previously, Emma remembered how downtrodden her father had been. So, she was secretly happy that he spent so much time in their little cottage.  
When he wasn’t lecturing her, that was.

Mr. Woodhouse retired to his room not long after dinner, leaving Emma and George sat at the table with the dirty dishes and a second bottle of wine. 

“I shouldn’t drink any more of this,” Emma hiccuped. “I’m on the morning shift with Harriet.”

“Ah,” George smiled and leaned back in his chair, the soft light of the moon illuminating his blond hair. “How is Miss Smith getting along?”

“Oh, just fine. I’ll show her how to use the tills tomorrow, she’s pretty much set on the menu layout.”

Harriet Smith was the newest employee at Hartfield Café. A pretty, if not slightly mousey, young girl, Harriet was due to start as a student at the local university after the summer, a tiny, campus based place just a bus journey outside of the village. She had self-consciously entered the café just three weeks previously, CV and cover letter in hand, and had timidly asked for a job interview. Emma was more than happy to oblige - she was only after part-time hours, because of college, and had seemed nice enough. Harriet had started that same week, and her training period was going swimmingly. She was also absolutely devoted to Emma.

Emma said as much to George, who laughed slightly mockingly. “Of course she is. And that’s perfect for you, is it not?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, now you can have your own one-woman fan club.” He shook his head, smiling, before sipping his wine and speaking again. “You’d better not turn her into one of your projects, Em, I swear to God.”

Well, now that he mentioned it... Harriet was pretty, of course, but she could definitely do with a little help here and there. Some lessons in confidence, perhaps, a new hairstyle?

“Emma.” George’s voice had a hint of warning. “I know that look. Don’t you dare try to set her up with anyone. The poor girl isn’t your toy.”

“But she told me she’s never had a proper boyfriend! She could meet someone really nice. How about Elton, he comes in a lot.”

“Firstly, you’ve never had a proper boyfriend either. And secondly, Elton? Really?” George snorted derisively. “He’s so self obsessed he probably wouldn’t even notice Harriet if she was stood under his nose, stark naked and painted purple. Leave her be, I’m sure she’ll find someone nice at university.” He raised his eyebrow slyly. “It’s the best place for it.”

Emma narrowed her eyes at his insinuation. “Oh yeah? Who did you meet at university then?”

“A few people. It was a really fun few years, Em. You know, you still have time to go. You’re only twenty, that’s hardly anything.”

The familiar sense of mild panic rose in Emma’s throat; she tamped it down with a sip of wine. “Um, maybe. Maybe next year.” She was so not in the mood for a lecture from George Knightley about getting out of the village for once. “I’d like some elaboration though, please. Who were your most memorable university conquests?”

In the dim light, Emma saw his teeth glint as he smiled slightly awkwardly. He looked down, then back up, then to the side. It wasn’t very often that George was unable to form a coherent sentence straight away. “You’re going to hate me.” 

Oh God. Oh, don’t let it be-

“Jane Fairfax.” 

Fuck.

Emma gripped the stem of her wine glass so hard she thought it might break. Carefully, she put it down on the table, George’s lingering gaze on her hand telling her that he had noticed the vice-like hold.

“You and...” Her voice was suddenly quieter. “Jane Fairfax? Were together?”

“Well,” George suddenly looked fairly uncomfortable, which gave Emma a sick thrill of satisfaction. “Not together. It wasn’t a relationship. We kind of ended up moving in the same circles and just... hooked up sometimes.”

“How often is ‘sometimes?’”

“Quite a lot. A lot.”

“When?”

“My second and third year. So it would have been her first and second.”

Emma had known that George and Jane had both gone to the same university, she wasn’t that out of the loop. But it was a very, very nasty shock to find out that they had been sleeping together for almost two years.

And yet she couldn’t put a finger on why she was so perturbed by this information.

Trying to appear light and easy, Emma smiles cheekily. “And how was it?”

“How was... what?” George’s brow furrowed and Emma blushed. She must sound so weird. No going back now.

“The sex. How was it?”

“Um...” George trailed off. He definitely felt uncomfortable. “Em, we don’t have to talk about this. I know you don’t like her, and I know you wouldn’t want to talk about... ahem, about that anyway.”

Emma’s heart flipped suddenly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, uh, well because, you’re... Um.” George looked positively wretched. 

“Because I’m a virgin?”

“Well, yes, I suppose.”

Emma huffed out a mirthless laugh. “Just because I haven’t had sex, Knightley, doesn’t mean I’m a complete prude. Yes, twenty is quite old to still be a virgin. So what? At least I’m not going around shagging Jane bloody Fairfax in everyone’s face!” She suddenly felt close to tears, and cursed herself for reacting so terribly. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

George bit his full lip. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

Emma stood up. “Well, I’m not. I’m not interested.” She drained the rest of her glass. “You can let yourself out. I’m going to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi readers!
> 
> i just finished re-reading Emma again and fell in love with it all over again, and it prompted me to FINALLY get around to watching the new 2020 adaptation. i really didn’t expect to like it as much as i did, but it’s wonderful! i’ve been meaning to write an Emma fanfic for a while, and this seemed like as good a time as any to start one. 
> 
> if you’re a fan of Austen, feel free to go and check out my Pride & Prejudice fic, ‘we are all fools in love... or something’. 
> 
> this is yet another modern au with a ‘coffee shops and cafés’ theme bc it’s my favourite fanfic setting ever. 
> 
> hope you enjoy reading as much as i’m enjoying writing so far!


	2. Chapter 2

The raging storm overnight had cleared away most of the oppressive heat, leaving Saturday morning with a chill in the air. Emma rubbed her hands together as she left the cottage, watery sunlight barely warming her up. Finally, finally - Autumn was on its way. 

At half past seven in the morning, the streets of the village were quiet. The elderly owner of the local bakery was just opening up, and gave Emma a friendly wave as she passed. She resolutely ignored the large grey block of flats. Last night’s argument with George was still stuck in her mind, along with the remnants of the wine in the form of a slight headache. In her heart, Emma knew that George didn’t really have anything to apologise for, and she had probably overreacted. She would be damned if she would admit it, though. 

A huge yawn made Emma’s face ache as she rounded the corner onto the street containing Hartfield Café. She had had a restless night, both the argument and the storm keeping her awake. When she was much younger and there were storms overnight in the summer, Emma would patter through to her parent’s room. Her father would sleepily roll over, leaving room for his young daughter to snuggle up next to her mother. Mrs. Woodhouse would pull Emma close and whisper made-up fairy stories and song to drown out the thunder, until she fell asleep. The next day, Emma would always miraculously be back in her own bed. 

Now, Emma had to lie through the storm and try to block out the terrifying sounds herself. It never really worked. 

Upon reaching the café, Emma spotted a figure getting closer and closer. 

“Hi, Emma!”

Harriet Smith was waving far too energetically for a Saturday morning. Emma groaned internally, then felt horribly mean, so smiled and waved back as Harriet approached.

“Morning, darling.” Emma pulled out the keys from her bag. “Ready for the morning slog?”

“Of course!” 

*

“So... you and George Knightley aren’t a couple?”

Emma laughed heartily as she continued wiping down the front counter. Harriet was stood behind the till, absentmindedly munching on a macaron. It was still fairly early, with only the pair of them and a few of the kitchen porters in the shop. Without meaning to, Emma had opened up to Harriet a lot more than she had originally intended to. The girl was very sweet, in a little sister sort of way. There was something about her large mouth that broke into childish grins frequently, and her curly dark hair that was always pulled away from her huge eyes, that Emma found endearing. She also knew that Harriet was so innocent and trusting that any and all secrets she chose to confide in this new work companion would be absolutely safe. 

“No! No, of course we aren’t a couple.”

“But,” Harriet seemed to struggle with this, looking contemplatively at her macaron. “You spend so much time together, and you seem so familiar to one another. And I saw him kiss your cheek the other day!”

Emma felt her face heat up slightly and prayed that her pale skin would not blush. “Are two friends not allowed to kiss each other’s cheeks? No, George is simply... an extension of my family. His older brother John is married to my older sister Isabella. So, in that way, George is sort of like... my brother.”

Even as she said it, Emma knew she wasn’t convincing Harriet.

“Okay, not a brother. Just a very, very good friend.” She took a deep breath and put down the cleaning product. “Although, I’m not sure we’re such good friends at the moment.”

“Why ever not?”

“Well, you see...”

As Emma begun speaking, Harriet’s eyes suddenly grew as wide as dinner plates, and she started frantically chewing the macaron in her mouth. Emma furrowed her brow quizzically.

“What on earth...”

“Morning.”

She turned around at the familiar voice. George Knightly stood in front of her, wearing a sweater gifted to him by Mr. Woodhouse, a deliberately neutral look on his face. 

“Oh.” Emma couldn’t tell if she was pleased or annoyed to see him in the café. “You’re not working today, are you?”

“No, I’m on my way to do some gardening for Mrs. Goddard. She can’t do much anymore, because of, well...”

“Her age. Yes.”

There was an awkward pause, before Harriet finally seemed to swallow her macaron. 

“Hi, George.”

George, obviously grateful for something to say, greeted Harriet with more than the necessary enthusiasm. “Morning, Harriet, how are you?”

“Tired. But good, thank you.”

Another pause. Emma looked away from George. 

“Em, can we have a chat.”

She looked up, smiling beatifically but with cold eyes. “Of course we can. Harriet, love, are you okay in the shop by yourself? We shouldn’t be long.”

“Um...”

“Fab.”

Smirking to herself, Emma stalked around the front counter and through the back door into the kitchen, through the kitchen into the back office, then finally through the back office out into the tiny back yard area. George followed behind her, and soon they were stood in close proximity, almost squashed against the fence. 

Emma crossed her arms and looked up at him. “Well?”

“I’m not apologising.” George said firmly. Emma rolled her eyes. “No, hear me out. I’m not apologising for sleeping with she who shall not be named. I don’t regret it, and frankly it’s none of your business who I choose to sleep with.”

“I-“

“Let me finish. However, I am apologising for bringing up... what I brought up. That is none of my business, and it wasn’t fair. So, now we’ve both stuck our noses in each other’s businesses. Are we even?”

Emma wanted to stay angry. She would have so loved to have flounced back into the shop without a word, flicking her blonde hair behind her. But George seemed to determined to make up, and he was being so honest with her, that she had to relent. Emma smiled. “Yes, we’re even.”

“Hug?”

Emma’s heart skipped a beat as George held his strong arms out. She moved towards him and he wrapped her up in an embrace. Her arms wound around his waist as she pressed her face into his shoulder. 

They had hugged countless times. 

So why did it feel like she couldn’t breathe, in the best way possible?

She moved backwards and suddenly noticed something in his hand - a brown paper bag, of all things. “What’s that?”

“Oh, I, uh,” He looked rather sheepish for once. “I made you some lunch, just so you don’t get tempted to keep eating all the processed shit from the café and then complain about it later. It’s just a little salad box, a sandwich. Oh, and some fruit. And some chocolate. I know how much you love chocolate.” 

George smiled as he spoke. Emma took the bag from him wordlessly and peered inside. It was all painstakingly put together in Tupperware containers; she felt like her heart might crack. 

“Thank you, George.”

“After you.”

On a whim, Emma linked their arms together as they walked back through to the café, making George laugh uproariously. They were both still laughing when they made it back, but soon notices a change in the setting. 

Harriet was still stood behind the counter, but was leaning over the front, chin resting on her hands. Stood in front of her was Robert Martin, one of the kitchen porters who was about Emma’s age. Complete with dark messy hair, a tall and slightly stooping posture, and immensely broad shoulders, Robert gave off the impression of being slightly too big for the body he was born in. He was laughing with Harriet, who looked smitten, but stopped when he saw Emma and George.

“Morning, George. Emma.”  
“Hi, Bobby.”  
“Robert.”

Now, Emma wasn’t a judgemental person. Or, she didn’t think she was. But there was something about Robert Martin that she didn’t like. Maybe it was the way he had a tendency to shrug or look away in place of an answer to a question, or the mass of swirling tattoos covering his left arm, or the way that he was often late to morning shifts - as he was this morning - but he certainly wasn’t one of Emma’s favourite people. 

“Late again, Bob?” Emma said lightly. She unlinked her arm from George’s and put her lunch down on the counter next to Harriet, who straightened up immediately.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry about that. Bus was late.”

“We won’t tell Bates, don’t worry.” Harriet giggled. Emma glared at her, but her companion was too busy gazing at Robert Martin. George, however, caught Emma’s eye and raised his eyebrows. 

“I’d, uh, better get in the kitchen.” Robert began to slouch away, before turning back. “Maybe see you on my lunch break, Harriet?”

Harriet suddenly turned such an alarming shade of purple that Emma was reminded of a beetroot. “Um, um, yes! Yes, maybe. See you.” 

She waited approximately half a second after Robert was out of earshot before grinning so widely that Emma thought her face might split in half. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Isn’t he so cute? Isn’t he, Emma? Don’t you think?”

“He’s certainly got his own... charm.”

She ignored George’s sigh and watched Harriet dreamily walk over to the first customer of the day to take their order. 

“Emma.”

Here it was.

She turned around, smiling brightly. “What?”

“Remember what I said.” George’s voice had taken on that stern quality it was so wont to do when he felt the need to lecture her. “Don’t go interfering in other people’s business.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?”

“That look you get in your eye whenever you have a new plan. You look so... mischievous.” He smiled slightly. “Just leave Harriet to fall in love with Bobby if she wants. He’s actually a really decent guy.”

“Hmm.”

“God, don’t be so judgemental.” He rolled his eyes and leant down to give her a quick hug. “I’m off to mow some lawns and then carry on with this fucking MA. Have a fun shift.”

“Bye, Knightley.”

He said goodbye to Harriet and gave Emma one last wave before leaving. She watched him walk quickly past the window, upright and stiff as usual. 

“Damn him.” She muttered to herself.

Emma Woodhouse had a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh emma, when will you learn?? 
> 
> hope you’re enjoying!


	3. Chapter 3

The week that passed hailed the beginning of September, which brought with it a few smatterings of drizzly rain throughout each day. On such a day, Emma finalised her plan, and decided to put it into action. Damn what George Knightley said, Harriet deserved to be happy.

“Hey, Harriet?” Emma popped her head into the back office of the café, where Harriet was sat with a cup of tea. 

“Oh, hi Em, I didn’t hear you come in.” 

Emma entered the office and sat down next to her new friend, gladly accepting the usual compliments about the luscious curls her hair always managed to fall in to. 

“Harriet.” Emma felt bad for cutting the girl off, but her shift was about to start and she had to get the debris from the morning rush in from the tables out the front of the café, in case it were to start raining again. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Um...” Harriet rubbed the tea mug with her thumb thoughtfully. “Well, it’s a Friday, so I’ll probably have a takeaway with my mum.”

Emma tried to hide a smile. “Do you think your mum can spare you for one night?”

“Why?” Harriet looked worried all of a sudden.

“Nothing bad!” Emma laughed. “I was wondering if you wanted to come out for a few drinks with me and some of my friends.”

Harriet’s eyes widened. “Oh. Really? Me?”

“Yes, silly, I’m asking you.”

“Oh.” She smiled, obviously flattered, but then frowned again. Emma resisted the urge to shake the silly little thing. “But I don’t know any of your friends. Apart from George.”

“Well, George isn’t coming, he’s busy.” He wasn’t busy, Emma just hadn’t asked him. “And you don’t know them because you haven’t met them, but if you meet them tonight, then you’ll know them, won’t you?”

“I guess...” Harriet looked down into her cup of tea. “I’ll have to ask my mum.”

“For Christ’s sake, Harriet, you’re eighteen.” Emma snapped; she immediately regretted it, for Harriet’s eyes got wide like a puppy’s. “Look, it’s fine. We finish at the same time today, so just come to mine, we’ll get ready together and get a taxi into town. We can make a night of it. Okay?” 

Harriet still looked nervous, but smiled nonetheless. “Okay. I’ve never been on a night out before!” 

No shit.

She drained the rest of her tea and stood up. “I should probably get back to work.” 

Emma was about to put her apron on when Harriet popped her head back into the office. “Um... Emma?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Could you, um...” Harriet chewed at her bottom lip. “Could you maybe see if Bobby’s free? I don’t want to ask him, it’ll look a bit...” She paused.

“Desperate?” Emma supplied helpfully.

“Yes, I suppose. Could you just-?”

“Okay, Harriet.” Emma beamed at her friend. “I’ll mention it to him.”

“Great!” Harriet positively squeaked, dithering in the same spot for a moment before scampering through the kitchen, where Emma knew without a doubt she would receive a wave from Robert which would make her blush furiously. 

Before heading out into the café, Emma tapped out a quick message to Taylor, confirming the plans, before shoving her phone in her apron. She turned to the spotty mirror placed on the wall above the little sink and noticed the expression of self-satisfaction on her face. 

Emma knew that, according to everyone else, she was a very beautiful young woman. Countless people told her so - Georgiana Bates, the owner of the café, continuously fell into raptures whenever Emma did anything different with her hair, or wore a slightly altered outfit. Harriet had called Emma “the most beautiful girl she had ever seen” (which Emma personally thought was a bit much), and she was regularly complimented by her friends. It had to be said that Emma was rather proud of her thick, blonde hair, her fine nose and her large hazel eyes. Her high cheekbones, she was also aware, were a thing to be marvelled at, and had, according to her father, been inherited from her mother. Emma was, in short, slightly vain, but she believed that her awareness of that fact perhaps cancelled out the vanity. 

Even George Knightley had, on occasion, when the mood took him, told her that she was rather beautiful. For some reason, it had always made her blush when he said it - perhaps because it was so infrequent, and she was used to hearing him tell her to stop looking at herself in the mirror.

“When you’re done checking yourself out, the café is actually quite busy today.” 

Emma jumped and turned around, her hand flying up to her chest. George was leaning against the doorframe, smiling sardonically. 

“Jesus, you frightened me. Give me a warning next time.” Emma turned back to the mirror, a look of concentration on her face as she tied her hair up. 

“Sorry, I’ll keep a bell around my neck.”

“Ha ha. I didn’t know you were in today.”

“Bates rang and asked if I could come and help out for the lunch shift. Didn’t really have anything to do today so I thought I might as well.”

“I see.”

“So,” He pushed off from the doorframe and entered the room, opting to lean against a chair instead. “What’s this Harriet tells me about a night out tonight?”

Shit. Emma tried to keep a neutral face as she pulled out a few strands of hair to frame her face, avoiding George’s gaze in the mirror. “Nothing really, I just wanted to introduce her to some new people. Make sure she has some friends.”

“Who’s going, might I ask?”

“Taylor, Wes. Dixie, I think, probably Perry... and maybe,” annoyingly, Emma felt her face flush. “Maybe Frank. Frank Churchill.”

George didn’t react for a second, only standing up straighter, before groaning in mock agony. “Are you serious? Frank Churchill?”

“What’s wrong with Frank Churchill, might I ask?”

“I just...” He shook his head. “I don’t know why you like him so much. I remember you telling me things he’d get up to in sixth form, how he’d treat certain people. He just seems like a bit of a wanker.”

“Well, he always treated me nicely.”

George smiled, slightly sadly. “That’s not the point, Emma.”

Emma looked away.

“Anybody else coming tonight?”

Emma turned around to face George. She could see that knowing look in his eye, and knew the game was up. “Elton.”

He huffed out a short laugh. “I knew it. You’re trying to set them up.”

“Well, I-“

“You’re meddling again! Just like I told you not to, Emma.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, George.” Emma turned away from him and grabbed her pen and notepad off the table, hastily shoving it into her apron. “You’re not my... you’re not my brother, okay? Get off my back.”

“No,” George’s voice sounded odd. Almost... strained? “No, I’m not your brother, Emma.” 

“No.”

“Far from it.”

“Yes.”

“But I can still give you advice.”

“Advice,” she said sharply, pushing past him. “That I didn’t ask for. I don’t want to be lectured, George.”

Emma pretended that she didn’t hear him sigh as he followed her through the kitchen. 

*

Harriet had surprised Emma, really. Five minutes into the getting ready process taking place in Emma’s room, Harriet could evidently bear it no longer and exploded with the question she had been dying to ask.

“Did you speak to Bobby?”

Emma shut her eyes briefly. Was she about to do this?

She opened them. Yes. Absolutely. 

She swivelled the chair around that she was sat on at the makeup table and arranged her face into an expression of regret. “Sorry, Harriet. He said he’d love to come but he’s got, um, band practice.”

“Oh.” Harriet’s disappointment was palpable, and for a moment Emma felt sick with regret. “He’s a very dedicated drummer.”

“Yes,” Emma turned back to the mirror and continued filling in her brows. “Absolutely. I’m sure he’ll come next time.”

“Perhaps.” 

There was a short pause, where only the music from Emma’s speaker could be heard, before she turned around again. “Wait, how did you know that he plays drums?”

Harriet’s face colours up as she began stammering. “I, well, I just, we’ve been, um. We’ve been spending most of our, our lunch breaks together. At work. And, um, we’ve been texting.”

“You got his number?”

The girl nodded fervently, grinning now. “He asked for mine. I quite like that, it’s old-fashioned, isn’t it? Better than asking for someone’s Snapchat.”

Emma turned back to the mirror. This wasn’t part of the plan.

“Of course,” she said, her mind whirring. “You know that Robert’s planning on moving away soon?”

“No?” She sounded dejected again. “He didn’t tell me that.”

“So, really... there wouldn’t be much point in starting anything up with him. Besides,” Emma powdered on some blusher as she spoke. “Bobby isn’t that great a guy, really. He’s a bit of a... stick in the mud.”

This wasn’t a complete lie, about Robert moving away. Emma had often overheard him talking to George about how, when the band just got enough traction, when they’d played enough gigs in town to get some recognition, and they’d all saved up some money, all of them would move away to somewhere bigger, with better prospects.

Of course, Emma knew that this wouldn’t happen any time soon. Or ever.

Harriet was reflected in the mirror from her cross-legged position on Emma’s bed; her head was propped up on one fist, and she was dejectedly playing with a tassel on a cushion. Emma turned around again. “Come on, Harriet. It isn’t the end of the world. It’s your first night out! We’re going to have a brilliant time, and you’ll meet all of my friends. And,” She deliberately dropped her voice slightly lower - now was the time. “I have it on very good authority that Elton thinks you’re cute.” 

Harriet’s round face immediately lit up. “Really? Your friend Elton, the one who works at the Church?”

“Yep.”

It wasn’t a lie at all. In fact, a few days ago, Elton had come into the café as he was wont to do due to its position almost directly opposite the Church, and had stopped to have a chat with Emma, as usual. Harriet had been in the back office having her lunch, so Emma has seized this perfect opportunity to further her plan and subtly mention Harriet in the conversation. This led to a polite enquiry from Elton, which led to Emma showing him a picture of her from her camera roll, which prompted Elton to call her “very cute”, completely of his own accord! 

So, the plan was going swimmingly already. 

Harriet seemed distracted from her disappointment already, busy thinking about meeting Elton in just an hour or so. Emma smiled at her friend. This was good.

She knew that George wouldn’t understand her motives. To him, Emma made matches and ‘meddled’ simply because she was bored and enjoyed being nosy. But what he didn’t understand was that all she wanted was the best for her friends. And Harriet, sweet, innocent Harriet, would go nowhere with a deadbeat boyfriend like Robert Martin. He was a dishwasher at the café for God’s sake, and where would his little grungy indie band ever get him? Elton, on the other hand, was intelligent, witty, very handsome. He had a degree in Theology and Literature, he had a good job as a children’s pastor and supervisor in the local Church at just twenty-three years old - he was someone who could take care of Harriet and treat her like a princess. George would never understand that, so why should she bother explaining it to him?

Emma finished her makeup, gave herself one last look in the mirror, and turned to Harriet. “Come on. Sit in my chair, I’ll do your makeup.”

*

After a fairly long Uber journey into town - which felt a million miles away from Highbury village anyway - Emma and Harriet made it to the pub, Harriet wobbling slightly in the heels Emma had loaned to her. 

It was packed, as usual on a Friday night. Emma kept a hold of Harriet’s arm, craning her neck around to look for their group. 

“Em! Over here!” 

Packed into a booth, Taylor, Wes and Dixie were waving frantically. Emma weaved her way towards the girls, Harriet in tow, and greeted them enthusiastically. She had to say, after a while of not going out much, it felt nice to be the object of glowing praise again. 

“Oh, Em, your hair looks gorgeous!”  
“God, your makeup is glowing.”  
“Where did you get that dress?”

“Charity shop, believe it or not.” Emma replied to Wes, kissing her on the cheek. She noted, with satisfaction, that Wes and Taylor were holding hands under the table. She slid into the booth next to Dixie, before remembering Harriet.

“Girls,” Emma signalled for Harriet to sit down next to her. She looked frankly terrified. “This is Harriet, she works with me at the café.”

“Hi, darling! I love your hair, it’s so shiny!” Taylor immediately reached out and wound a curl of Harriet’s dark hair around her finger.

“Your eyes are beautiful! So big.” Dixie cooed, sipping her drink. 

Emma nudged Harriet’s knee under the table. “See? They’re lovely, aren’t they?”

“Yes.” Harriet smiled nervously. Emma rolled her eyes and dragged her friend out of the booth, almost as quickly as they had sat down.

“Let’s get a drink.”

As Emma made her way to the bar, once again with Harriet in tow, she wondered where Elton could have got to. He had said he was definitely coming - and Frank too. 

In a twist of fate that was unusual for Emma Woodhouse, she had never really been on Frank Churchill’s radar at college. Whilst Emma had been one of the most popular girls at her sixth form, Frank had never really paid her any interest, which (as Emma had begrudgingly acknowledged) was part of the reason why she had always fancied him just a little bit. 

So where was he?  
And, more importantly for Harriet, where was Elton?

“Two double gin and tonics please,” Emma gave her best smile to the young bartender, “with pink gin for my friend here.”

“Pink gin?”

“Strawberry flavoured.”

“Oh.” Harriet’s eyes widened at the prospect of alcohol, and Emma reminded herself to keep an eye on her naive friend’s alcohol intake, at least until the next phase of the plan was set into motion. 

When their drinks arrived and Emma had paid for both, they turned around to try and fight their way back to the booth. Emma squinted, then smiled and nudged her companion. 

“Harriet. Look.” 

Harriet craned her neck, then blushed alarmingly. Elton was sat at the back of the booth, his head tipped back as he laughed at something Perry said.  
Emma looked at her friend and grinned slyly. “Come on. Let’s introduce you.”

*

After an hour at the pub, Emma was still only two drinks in, having refused a few more rounds. She never liked drinking too much - George always told her it was because she was a control freak. She rolled her eyes at the idea of him sitting in the booth next to her, lecturing her yet again. His problem, Emma always maintained, was that he didn’t know how to have fun. 

“So where’s Frank tonight, then?” Emma leaned in towards Taylor and Wes, interrupting them in their own little world. “I thought he was coming out with us tonight.”

“Oh, did we not say?” Taylor frowned sympathetically. “He’s not in the village at the moment, he’s still visiting his aunt. His parents are with him, they’ve been there for a while.”

“She’s quite ill, apparently.” Wes interjected, running a finger around her glass. “My mum heard from my aunt who heard from Frank’s dad’s cousin that Frank’s aunt is sick, so they’ve all left the village for a while to be closer to her.”

Emma leaned back in her seat. “Gosh. That’s terrible.”

Wes and Taylor had already gone back to their own conversation. Emma turned to say something to Dixie, but she was engrossed in a conversation with Perry. Elton and Harriet, surprisingly, were nowhere to be seen. Emma looked down into her glass. It was empty. 

“Anybody want another drink?” 

There was no answer; Emma rolled her eyes and slid out of the booth. 

The bar wasn’t as packed as it had been an hour ago, so Emma was able to hop onto a chair and order another drink, which she vowed would be her last one.

“Emma!” 

Harriet clattered over from the other side of the bar, Elton in tow. Her cheeks were flushed and her curly hair was veering towards being frizzy, but Emma noted the large smile on her adorable face, and smiled back, an eyebrow raised. 

“Having fun, Harriet?”

“Absolutely.” The girl seemed giddy, like she had just got off a rollercoaster. “Elton’s been telling me all about his job at the Church. He wants to be a bishop some day, if he, you know, carries on the way he is.” 

Elton smirked and leaned against the bar. “Well, now it’s more a matter of ‘when’ than ‘if’. It’s pretty much guaranteed.”

Emma had to stop herself from gritting her teeth. She liked Elton, she really did, and she always thought that George was far too harsh on him. But sometimes he could be rather irritating. 

Still, he was a much better fit for Harriet than Robert, in Emma’s own humble opinion. 

“Hey, Em,” Elton touched her bare shoulder as he spoke. Emma looked down at his hand with her eyebrows raised. “We’re thinking of heading to a club after the next round, it’s almost midnight. Up for it?”

Time for the next phase.

“Oh, you know what?” She said, an expression of faux disappointment on her face. “I don’t really feel like going out into town anymore. I’ve got the morning shift tomorrow, and-“

“Have you?” Harriet’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “I thought you started at two tomorrow?”

Emma had deliberately requested Miss Bates to put her on the early shift for that particular Saturday a while ago, to consolidate her plan. “Yeah, Bates put me on in the morning instead.” She grimaced, but felt like grinning. “Such a bummer!”

“So... you’re not coming out?” Elton frowned. 

“No, sorry. You lot go on ahead though. You’ll look after Harriet, won’t you Elton?” Emma winked at him, but he didn’t seem to catch it. Harriet grinned up at him, but he carried on frowning at Emma.

“Are you feeling okay? You never used to say no to a night out.”

“I’m fine, I just don’t want to be in a complete state at work tomorrow.”

“When did you get so boring?” Elton said this light-heartedly enough, but Emma felt her heart twist. “You’ll never get a taxi on a Friday, it’ll take ages.”

“I’ll get an Uber.”

She got up, drained her drink and kissed Harriet on both warm cheeks. “Don’t stay out all night, darling. Have a nice time, and I’ll see you at work tomorrow.” She gave Elton a brief hug that lasted slightly too long for her liking. 

“Bye!” Harriet carried on waving as Emma once again weaved her way through the crowd of people packed into the pub. 

Outside, the air was much cooler, cold enough to make Emma shiver in her small top and skirt combination. After a few weak attempts to hail a taxi with no luck, she pulled out her phone to open her Uber app. 

“Fuck!” There was no Wifi, and her data was completely out, as usual. Childishly, she stomped her foot on the ground. One word to Elton, and he would have whizzed her home in his car. Well, that wasn’t going to happen - the plan would be ruined! 

Of course, she could always walk... if she was okay with getting home at sunrise. 

There was only one feasible option. 

“George?”

He had picked up the phone after a few rings that had felt like they lasted for an eternity each. On the other end of the phone, he sounded mildly irritated. 

“Hey, Emma.”

“Are you busy?”

“I was just about to get into bed.” He suddenly sounded worried. “Why, what’s wrong?”

“No, no, nothing’s wrong. I just... my Uber app isn’t working and my phone’s about to die, and I can’t get a taxi.”

A short pause. Emma heard a stifled chuckle. “What do you want me to do about it?”

That fucker. She almost threw her phone into the road in irritation. “Well, I didn’t just ring to tell you about my night. Can you come and pick me up, or what?”

“You’re being awfully impolite for someone who’s stranded in town.”

“George!”

“Okay, fine.” He conceded. “Where are you?”

“Outside ‘Duke’.”

“‘The Duke’s Head’? In town?” George sighed heavily down the phone. “Wait outside, I’ll be there in twenty.” 

“Make it ten and I’ll never ask you for anything again.”

“We both know that’s a lie.” 

It took fifteen minutes of Emma standing outside in the cold for George’s battered Corsa to pull up outside. She scrambled into the front seat and leant her head back, grateful for the warmth inside the vehicle. 

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They drove in silence for a little while; Emma could practically hear the cogs whirring in George’s brain, until...

“So, why didn’t you go out in the end?”

“Just, um, didn’t fancy it.” Emma knew that George would see through the lie immediately. He always, always did.

He huffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. Was Frank not there?”

“No, he’s looking after his aunt. She doesn’t live in the village.”

“Oh. Right.” Another pause. “We’re you getting sick of Elton’s drunken sermons?”

Emma laughed lightly, shutting her eyes against the street lamps whizzing past. “Something like that.”

“And I’m guessing Harriet wasn’t?”

There it was. Emma looked at George with her best faux-innocent face. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come off it Emma.” She watched George turn the steering wheel with one large hand, and for some reason felt a lurch in her stomach. The alcohol, it was the alcohol. “I know what you were doing tonight. I told you this morning, you need to leave Harriet alone!”

“I don’t-“

“You could at least try to be less obvious about it. Why are you so desperate to set Harriet up with Elton?”

“I’m not desperate, I just don’t want her to waste her time with someone who wouldn’t be a good match for her.”

“Robert Martin, you mean?”

“No, not necessarily!”

“You know, you can be very shallow sometimes.” George said shortly, looking resolutely forward. “Robert is a really nice person.”

“But he’s so rude! He never replies to me properly, just grunts like a neanderthal.”

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe he’s shy, and that maybe you don’t talk to him in a way that would incentivise him to be nice back to you?”

“Oh, come off it. When have I ever been horrible to his face?”

“You’re very cold towards him.”

Emma opened her mouth to retort, but ended up just staring at George in profile. She sat back, arms crossed, staring crossly out of the window. 

“I’m not shallow.” She sniffed. “That’s a very mean thing to say, George.” 

She heard George shift in the seat next to her. When he spoke, his voice was softer. “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. You’re not shallow. You just... need to give people a chance sometimes. Not everybody has to be your biggest fan.”

Emma stared out of the window without replying. Town had slowly morphed into the counteyside, shadowed fields and the occasional house whizzing by. 

“How was it? Seeing everyone?”

“Fine.” Yet again, Emma was beyond tempted to stay angry, refuse to talk an slam her way out of the car when they got to her house. But that was boring and wouldn’t cause any good, so she turned back around in her seat. “It was really nice to see everyone properly.” She paused. There was a heavy feeling in her heart that she had tried to ignore all night. “But... they’ll all be going back to university for second year at the end of the month. Leaving the village, again. Harriet too.”

“You’ll see Harriet at work.” George’s voice was quiet, gentle. “And the others will come back at weekends, and Christmas.”

“I know.” Emma looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “It won’t be the same, though.”

George didn’t say anything, just carried on driving, slower now they were out of town. The sky was the darkest blue Emma had ever seen, but not quite black, with no visible stars. It was like a silent blanket over the village. 

“Sometimes I think I’ve missed out on life.”

George took a short breath before replying. “What makes you say that?”

“Just... everyone from college went off to university and I stayed here. They tell me stories about the parties they go to, the people they meet. Even Elton, I know he works in the village now, but even he’s got more life experience than me. And you, you’ve just got back from travelling, you’re doing a Masters, you went to university. All I’ve ever known is Highbury. My dad, the café, the Church. That’s it.”

“So why don’t you go to university then? Or even save up and move away? Emma, you would thrive away from this village. This place, it’s too small for someone like you.”

“What if it’s too late though?” Emma looked away, not wanting George to see the tears brimming in her eyes. “Everyone else’s lives are in full swing, and I just feel.. I feel like, even though I have friends that adore me and I’m known around the village, and I have a good job... I just haven’t done anything meaningful. And maybe I can’t now. I love this village so much, I really do, so it terrifies me to imagine leaving it.” 

The car had come to a stop. The little cottage lay outside, most of it in shadow, some of it illuminated by a flickering streetlight. Frustratedly, Emma wiped her eyes. George sighed. 

“Em... it isn’t too late for you, not by a long shot. You’ve got a lot going for you. I’m... I’m sorry if I upset you when I say you’re silly or selfish or anything, because your other qualities outshine anything negative, I promise you that. You’re going to do so much with your life, you just need to give yourself a kickstart.”

Emma turned towards him. Even in the synthetic glow of the streetlight above the car, George’s eyes shined like diamonds. His full lips were slightly parted. Emma was so close that she could see the slight dampness on them. She saw his own eyes flicker down to her mouth, then back up to her eyes. 

Her heart skipped a beat as he leaned in slightly. Without thinking, she mirrored him. They were barely an inch apart. 

Her head was swimming. It had to be the alcohol, it had to be.

Except... she hadn’t drunk very much.

Emma shut her eyes. 

A shift, a small movement. She parted her lips.

Nothing. 

“Emma.” 

Upon opening her eyes, Emma could see that George had leaned back, away from her. Her heart had suddenly tied itself into a knot. 

“Emma, I-“  
“Forget it.” She grabbed her bag and went to open the door, determined that George wouldn’t see her tears. “Thanks for the lift.”  
“Emma-“

She scrambled out of the car and shut the door, practically running up the path to her house. As she fumbled for her keys, Emma heard the car drive away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angst and sexual tension!!! oh dear
> 
> this was also a slight homage to clueless (josh picking cher up after the party) because it’s such a fantastic modern take on Emma 
> 
> hope you’re all enjoying and staying safe! thanks for all the lovely comments so far


	4. Chapter 4

“And you didn’t kiss him?”

Emma felt like she could push Harriet onto the floor, tip over a few tables, scream at every customer in the place and run out of the café. Instead, she shut her eyes briefly and turned back to her companion, who was staring at her with a shocked, puppy-like, wide-eyed gaze.

“No. Like I said, I don’t know what went through either of our heads, but it was very stupid. And nothing happened. So...” Emma paused, remembering the flickering of George’s eyelids just before he leaned in. She shook her head and went back to wiping the week-old specials menu off the blackboard in front of her. “So it’s all fine.”

Harriet looked like she was about to say something more on the matter, but Emma steered the conversation away, believing she may genuinely be at risk of shoving one of the new cakes into her mouth to stop her talking. “So, how was your night? You seem pretty perky today.”

Harriet had crashed into the café at ten minutes to two that day, grinning and waving at Emma, who was stood behind the counter waiting for a new order. Emma had half expected her to not turn up for her shift, or at least come in with a huge hangover. It had been her first time drinking, after all. But Harriet seemed perfectly herself, ditzy and happy and talkative. Emma was finding her particularly exhausting this Saturday, but persisted in finding out about her night nonetheless.

“Oh, it was really fun.” Harriet smiled to herself, looking away shyly. “Elton’s... Elton’s great.”

“Yeah?” Emma finished up with the blackboard and nudged Harriet in the ribs encouragingly. “So, did anything happen?”

Alarmingly, Harriet began giggling maniacally and turned bright red. “Oh my Gosh! No, of course not. He was very sweet though, and bought me a drink at the club, and we danced together, and he rang a taxi for me to get home.”

“Wonderful.” This small accomplishment was a brilliant distraction from the George turmoil, Emma realised. He hadn’t texted her or come into the café yet. Which was fine.

“Are you okay without me for a minute?” Harriet untied her apron as she spoke, her cheeks still pink. “I’m just going to run to the shop before I forget, Mum said she wanted some frozen peas.”

Emma laughed. “Fine, go and get your peas.”

Harriet gave her customary wave before leaving the café. Emma watched her hurry across the mostly empty road towards the supermarket opposite, noticing that her head was turned towards the Church where she knew Elton must be. She smiled at her triumph.

Looking around the café, she could see it was pretty dead. Despite it being a Saturday, Emma assumed that not many people were coming out for food due to the weather. It had grown colder overnight and had been drizzling all morning, making it feel more like November than September, and giving the village a distinctly gloomy feel. Casting a deliberately evasive eye over the place, Emma decided that there was nothing much to do, so she sat down on the little chair behind the counter and took out her phone. Miss Bates usually tutted when Emma went on her phone during a shift, but turned a blind eye. Whenever she was actually working in the shop, which was very rarely, Bates always told Emma that one day she could become the owner.

Which was a frankly terrifying thought.

Maybe George was right, Emma pondered as she scrolled mindlessly through Twitter. Maybe she should try to leave Highbury soon. Everywhere else just seemed so... big.

“Hey.”

Emma dropped her phone; it clattered onto the floor loudly, making one of the customers sat near the counter look up in alarm.

“Fuck.” Swearing under her breath, Emma leant down to pick up her phone, before standing up and coming face to face with George over the counter.

Brilliant. Just what she needed. Why didn’t she hear the bell when the door opened?

“Hi.” She kept her voice deliberately cold, though her heart was pounding underneath her black work shirt.

George, for once, looked awkward. Usually stood so upright and tall, he was slouching slightly, one hand playing with the hem of his t-shirt. His clothes were dirty with grass stains and soil - he must have been gardening again.

“Em, can we talk?” He laughed slightly. “Again?”

“About what?” She replied coolly. George rolled his eyes; a hint of normality.

“Don’t be like this. Look, last night...”

“George, it’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it.” Emma tried to smile brightly, but her face felt like a baby made mask. “Nothing even happened, right?”

“Uh, right.”

“So, there’s nothing to talk about. I’d had a few drinks, you were tired and weren’t thinking straight. Let’s stop being weird and just go back to normal, okay?”

For a moment, George looked like he was about to argue. Then he smiled and stood up straight. “Fine. Whatever you want.” Looking around, he reached over the counter into the open cake stand, picking up a Danish pastry.

“That’s stealing, you know.” Emma raised an eyebrow and grinned as she watched George devour the pastry.

“I’m starving, I’ve been in Mrs. Goddard’s garden since nine this morning.”

“Oh, that’s why you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, then.”

“Very droll, Emma.” He swallowed the remainder of the pastry and clapped his hands together once. Emma almost giggled at his pensioner-like characteristics. “Well, I only came in to say hi. I’d better get home and shower.”

“Oh, is this your yearly shower? Special occasion?”

“You’re on fire today! And yes, actually.”

“Oh?” Emma started searching for chalk under the counter as George spoke, only half-listening.

“Uh, yeah. My Mum’s forcing me to go for dinner with her and Bates.” He paused. “And Jane.”

That caught Emma’s attention. Quickly, she straightened up, before smacking her head on the underside of the counter.

“Shit!”

George hurried around to her side. “God, Em, are you okay? That sounded like it hurt.”

“Yes, ow,” Emma rubbed the top of her head, squinting in pain. “It’s okay, I’m...” She noticed his hand holding her shoulder. He removed it quickly. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“Put some ice on it.” George said, looking at her head worriedly. “You might get a lump.”

“Brilliant.” Emma grumbled. A potential lump on her head was now the least of her worries. “You’re going for dinner with Jane Fairfax?”

“Not a date,” George said hastily.

“I didn’t think it was.”

“It’s just, you know my mum and Bates are old friends, and that’s why I help out here? They know that Jane and I were at university together so they both got this idea in their heads that we should all go out for a meal.” He rubbed his chin, which had a light dusting of golden stubble on it. “It’ll just be at the cheap Italian place in town. It’s not a big deal.”

“I didn’t think it was.”

“Neither did I.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

A pause.

Emma took a deep breath. “Do they know that you two..?”

“God, no.” George laughed but looked slightly alarmed. “My mum probably thinks I’m still a virgin at the age of twenty-four, could you imagine?” Even as he spoke, his face coloured up. “Oh, Em-“

“Jesus, George, it’s fine. Just go home and get showered, you stink of soil.”

George grinned and, to Emma’s simultaneous annoyance and pleasant surprise, reached towards her and ruffled her hair.

“I’m going to have to redo my ponytail now!”

“It looks cute.” He nabbed another small cake and moved around the counter before walking through the café, waving at one of the regular customers, an old lady who always called him a “very handsome young man”. Emma smiled to herself and went to begin writing on the specials blackboard, before another commotion made her turn around.

Harriet clattered her way through the door, almost knocking a startled George over. George turned back to Emma and shrugged, before leaving the shop and making his way across the road.

Harriet ran to join Emma behind the counter; her face was as red as a tomato, and she was clutching a bag of frozen peas to her chest. It was an absurd sight.

“Emma,” she panted. “You will never believe what just happened!”

“Did aliens come to Highbury?” Emma was slightly put out by how hysterical her friend seemed, but tried to keep a cool air. She picked up a white chalk and began writing on the blackboard. “What happened, Harriet?”

“So, I went across the road to the supermarket; and I actually saw Elton! He was just outside the Church waiting for this little nursery party, so I stopped to chat to him and he said they were having a weekend trip to the Church to do some activities with the kids’ group, and then I said I had a really nice night last night, and he said yes it was really fun and we should do it again soon!”

A curl of satisfaction with her plan was unfurling in Emma’s stomach. “That’s great, Harriet!”

“But!” When Emma briefly turned away from the board to look at Harriet, she saw that she was so wound up that there was a distinct possibility she might fling the bag of peas across the room at any moment. “Then, I went into the supermarket, and guess who I saw?”

“I don’t-“

“Robert! It’s his day off today, he said he was doing the food shop for his parents.”

Emma almost made a derisive remark about how he still lived at home with his parents, before remembering who she lived with. She shut her mouth.

“So we were stood talking for a while, and he was being so sweet and asking about my week, and don’t you think he’s so good looking? I love his hair, oh and his tattoos are amazing! He’s so creative.” The girl was positively gushing. “And THEN, he asked if I wanted to come to his band practice tomorrow and then go for a drink afterwards!”

Well, that wasn’t a part of the plan.

_“You know, you can be very shallow sometimes. Robert is a really nice person.”_

For a moment, Emma was tempted to take George’s advice, for possibly the first time in her life, and leave Harriet be. But then the image of Harriet, sat by herself on a grotty sofa in the garage at Robert’s parent’s house, watching his horrible band play awful music, surfaced in her mind. She mentally pushed George away, and quickly hatched another plan.

“Oh, wow.” Emma said nonchalantly, continuing to write the new specials menu on the board in front of her, her back now to Harriet. “Did you say yes?”

“I said I’d get back to him.” The anxiety in Harriet’s voice was palpable. “I wanted to see what you thought first, Em.”

Emma smiled to herself, but quickly arranged her face into a solemn, thoughtful expression when she turned around. Harriet was still clutching the peas tightly, her eyes wide with worry.

“I’m not telling you what to do, because this is completely your decision, okay?”

“Okay.”

“It’s just, I’ve known Robert longer than you have, he lives practically opposite me. I hear his shitty garage band playing every afternoon and evening. He’s nice and everything, he’s just... a bit of a deadbeat, you know?”

“I guess...”

“And I just think that, if you’re starting university in less than a month, would you rather have a deadbeat boyfriend holding you back, or would you rather have some fun with a really nice, clever, good-looking guy who I can personally vouch for, and who has a stable job and good prospects?”

“Um...”

“Again, it’s completely up to you, Harriet, completely. I just think that, and I keep this as a general rule, if you have to think twice about going on a date with someone - and that’s if you can call watching someone play the drums a date - then you probably shouldn’t accept the invitation.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you see what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“Good.”

With a crisp nod, Emma turned back to the blackboard. Now all she had to do was wait...

“Emma?”

Here it was. Emma shut her eyes.

“I think... I think I’m going to say no. To Bobby.”

Emma smiled and opened her eyes again. She turned around, frowning slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harriet was chewing her thumbnail, her brow furrowed. “It’s probably the right thing to do.”

“You’re probably right, Harriet. Maybe just drop him a text later? Let him down gently.”

“Okay.” Harriet bit her thumb morosely, before looking up at Emma again with wide eyes, speaking quickly. “Can you do it? I won’t be able to word it properly.”

“Me?” Emma pretended to consider. “I can’t really do it for you, but I could maybe give you an idea of what to say.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah. Just give me a vague outline.”

Five minutes later, Emma was leaning over the counter, Harriet’s phone in her hand, tapping out a message to Robert Martin.

“‘Hey Bobby, I’m really sorry but I’m not free for a date tomorrow. I’m not looking for anything serious at the moment, but it would be nice if we could stay friends.’” Emma looked up at Harriet brightly. “How’s that?”

Harriet leaned over Emma’s shoulder, anxiously observing the screen. “Um... what if he thinks I’m still, you know. Leading him on? By saying I want to be friends?”

“Perfect! We’ll just get rid of that, then.” Emma deleted some of the text. “‘Hey Bobby, I’m really sorry but I’m not free for a date tomorrow, and I’m not looking for anything serious at the moment.’ There, that’s a clear message.”

She handed the phone back to Harriet, smiling brightly. “You know, you don’t have to do this if you really think you like him.” Emma only said this as a formality - she knew that the deed had been done.

Harriet chewed her lip for a moment, almost looking as if she would change her mind. Then, she practically punched the ‘send’ button, made a tiny squeaking noise and shoved the phone into her apron.

For a second, Emma felt absolutely wretched when she looked at her companion’s sad little face. Then she shook herself free of the horrible feeling and placed her arm around Harriet’s shoulders. “Hey, why don’t you text Elton later? Start initiating more conversations with him.” She had a mini brainwave. “He texted me about half an hour ago.”

Harriet looked up excitedly. “Saying what?”

“Saying that he had a really nice night with you, and thinks you’re really sweet!”

Harriet’s entire face lit up, and Emma knew that she had done good. Damn George - he was so wrong about her motivations.

Finally, a new customer came into the shop, so Emma, for a while, was able to put the whole thing from her mind as she took a new order.

*

The longest shift of the week left Emma to close up the café, after Harriet had waltzed off with her peas and a dreamy smile after only three hours in the shop. To be fair to the girl, she had offered to stay until the end of Emma’s shift to make the clear-up quicker. But Emma had smiled placidly and said no, that she should go home and text Elton as soon as possible.

So, on a strangely dark and gloomy Saturday in early Autumn, Emma was tidying up the deserted café at six in the evening. The sky outside was overcast and bursting with grey clouds, making the synthetic lights inside the café look even brighter in the dimming weather. Stray mugs and plates that Emma hadn’t cleared up during the day were littered around the place, and there was still the indoor plants that needed watering and the menus that needed wiping. She sighed. This close would take a while.

Definitely not procrastinating, Emma turned on some Chet Baker. The only person who knew that she secretly liked music that wasn’t just from the Top 40 was George, and he had always vowed to never make fun of what she listened to. She reluctantly took the old-fashioned broomstick out of the cleaning cupboard and began sweeping, as Chet sang about his beloved funny valentine.

Almost as soon as she began, the bell rang on the door. Emma looked up - George Knightley, yet again, was in the café. Except something was different; his stained and muddy gardening clothes from the early afternoon had been transformed into a pressed white shirt tucked into navy blue trousers, complete with suspenders. Emma’s first instinct was to make a quip about the suspenders looking dorky, but she found she couldn’t. Her mouth had dried up.

“Hey,” George laughed lightly. “You okay? You look a bit spaced out.”

Emma shook her head. “Uh, yes. Sorry. Hey.” She took him in again, trying to act slightly less mental. “All ready for your hot date?”

He smiled gently, looking away. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Emma pursed her lips and carried on sweeping.

George walked slowly into the café, looking around. “The close is going well then, I see?”

“Oh, shut up. It suddenly got really busy after lunchtime and I just didn’t have enough-“

“I was joking, Em, don’t worry.” He put down the jacket he was carrying. “I’ll help.”

If it had been anyone else, Emma would have politely refused their help. But she knew that George wouldn’t take no for an answer, and so let him start picking up a few mugs.

After a short while of working comfortably with just the music, George spoke. “So, I just ran into Bobby Martin.”

Emma paused. Of course he did, of bloody course. She took a deep breath and carried on sweeping the floor, avoiding George’s gaze. “Oh?”

“We had a chat.”

“Okay.” She could tell where this was going, and resisted the urge to run into the back office and stay there until George left.

“A chat about Harriet.”

“So why are you telling me this? Surely this is a conversation you should be having with Harriet herself.”

“I really can’t believe you sometimes, Emma Woodhouse.”

Propping the broom against the counter, Emma huffed out an angry laugh. “Don’t ‘Emma Woodhouse’ me, George Knightley, until you tell me what it is you’re lecturing me about.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Emma.” George punctuated Emma’s name by swiftly walking behind the counter and aggressively putting the mugs down on the surface. Emma could have laughed at the ridiculous severity of this motion if she wasn’t so riled up. She turned to face him, glaring at him over the till on the front counter.

“Why don’t you enlighten me, George, because from your tone of voice, you seem to think I’ve done something wrong, when all I know I’ve done is help out a friend.”

“A friend? Is that what you call yourself?” George shook his head. “You’ve been no friend to Harriet Smith. She’s just your... your pet! You like having her around because she hero-worships you, and that way you can control who she does or doesn’t choose to have in her, and therefore your, life.”

“George, I simply gave her my opinion and let the girl come to her own conclusion! Yes, I watched her send the text, but-“

“You watched her!” Emma had never seen George so incensed; she realised that, as they had been arguing, they had been moving slowly around the counter, still glaring at each other. “You wrote the fucking text, Emma, don’t deny it! It’s so blindingly obvious that-“

“So what if I did?” Emma was shouting now, and she knew her face must be blazing. “Robert Martin isn’t good enough for Harriet, he just isn’t.”

“You really are shallow, you know that? You barely know the man, yet you insist that you know his character and pressure a young, impressionable girl into turning down what could be a really wonderful first relationship for her. Or, not even a relationship, but a friendship at least. Do you just want her for yourself, is that it?”

“No, I-“

“Do you really think that Elton will give a girl like Harriet the time of day?”

“What do you mean, ‘a girl like Harriet’? She’s beautiful, funny, slightly naive but quite adorable. Why wouldn’t Elton fancy her?”

“Because Philip Elton is a...” He waved his hands around, searching for the right word. Emma tried to tear her eyes from them. “He’s a social climber, a popularity leech. He hides behind this image of being a holier-than-thou, selfless Christian, but you know just as well as me that he’s an empty vessel. Harriet will be a distraction for him, an experiment, but ultimately he’ll use her and throw her away.”

“And what gives you the authority to speak on this matter with absolute truth?” Emma’s throat hurt; she could feel the raw anger ebbing out of her, replaced with frustration and hurt. “Why is this any of your business?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

Emma went to reply, before realising that they were stood very close together. They had both reached the end of the counter, so there was no obstruction between their bodies. She could hear him breathing heavily and was close enough that she could feel his body heat against hers. He looked down at her with narrowed blue eyes, his lips slightly parted.

He leaned forward very slightly, almost imperceptibly.

Emma turned around and walked away, heading towards a table that was still laden with dirty crockery. Her heart was beating a loud tattoo against her ribcage.

“I don’t want to talk about this with you anymore. Go and enjoy your dinner with Jane.”

She heard a slight movement from behind her; a shuffle of feet, a sigh. For a tense second, Emma thought he was going to reach out and touch her. Then, she heard footsteps, before the bell above the door rang. The door opened and quickly shut again.

She looked up - the café was empty.

Emma sighed and rubbed her eyes.

They’d be fine again soon. They’d forget about the argument and move on, like they always did.  
Emma would have a night in at home with her father.

And George would go for a meal. With Jane Fairfax.

And it was all completely fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof angst again sorry 
> 
> also it’s making me laugh when i go back and re-read these chapters bc it seems like emma and harriet do nothing at the café, but i can confirm that that is exactly what it feels like when you work in a café/restaurant with a close friend


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> VERY minor sexual content like not that much at all

“Emma? Emma!”

“Yes, yes, I’m here, Dad.” Emma rushed into the kitchen at the sound of her father’s distressed voice, almost slipping over the dining room rug. “Are you okay?” Mr. Woodhouse was sat at the kitchen table, his morning bowl of Cornflakes sat untouched in front of him.

“Darling, can you answer the phone?”

The house phone, mounted on the wall, was indeed ringing. Emma shook her head at her dad. “Why didn’t you answer it?”

“I don’t know who it might be.”

Emma pressed the old-fashioned phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Emma, is that you?”

Emma cursed silently. It was her sister, sounding just as stressed and neurotic as ever. “Hi, Isabella. You okay?”

“I’ve got five kids and a useless husband, what do you think?” Faintly, Emma could hear shrieking and yelling, undoubtedly from the children. As Isabella shouted incoherently at them, Emma shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. It was far too early for this.

“Sorry,” Isabella said shortly after seemingly locking her children out of whichever room she was in. “What did you want?”

“You rang us, Isa.”

“Oh, yes. Is everything sorted for later?”

This sounded ominous. Emma turned around to face her dad, who was engrossed in his Cornflakes. “What’s happening later?”

Isabella huffed out a sound of annoyance. “For God’s sake, I knew John shouldn’t have arranged it with Dad. We’re coming to stay, he’s obviously forgotten to tell you.”

Emma rubbed her forehead in irritation. “Dad, you need to remember to tell me if plans are being made.”

Mr. Woodhouse waved vaguely in his daughter’s direction.

Instead of putting the phone down on her sister, having a go at her dad and running back upstairs to crawl under her duvet and go back to sleep, which is what Emma desperately felt like doing, she sighed and proceeded to finalise all the details. Isabella, John, and the five kids would arrive at six that evening, most likely expecting a slap-up meal. The two adults would sleep in the spare room with the babies, and the three eldest kids would share Emma’s bedroom, complete with an air mattress.

Emma would sleep downstairs on the sofa.  
The rock hard, very uncomfortable sofa. For five nights.  
Which was, you know. Fine.

After the tedious phone call with Isabella, Emma poured her own bowl of cereal, made a quick coffee and sat down opposite her father. He looked up from his newspaper and smiled at her vaguely.

“All sorted?”

She looked at his worn face, the perpetual worry behind his fading eyes. She could never stay annoyed at him, not for any true length of time.

“All sorted.”

They ate in companionable silence for a while, until Mr. Woodhouse spoke again.

“George is coming round tonight as well.”

There it was. Emma had been tempted to ask her sister whether George was coming, but knew that Isabella would have instantly picked up on any sign of tension or tone of anxiety in her voice and pounced like a viper, demanding to know any gossip. Emma and George hadn’t spoken since that disastrous Saturday afternoon in the café; it was now Monday. Granted, he had sent her a text that same night, reading simply: ‘Let’s not argue.’ But Emma, in yet another fit of stubbornness, had decided not to reply until she saw him next. He hadn’t texted again, so that was that.

Monday was Emma’s only day off that week; usually, on her days off, she would ring Taylor and see if she wanted to grab a coffee, or drop Perry a text to see whether he wanted to head into town to see a film. Occasionally, Emma would even help George with his gardening duties around the village - although her version of ‘helping’ was to buy bottles of water for him and pluck a weed or two from the ground, usually whilst bickering about something or other. Anything to fill the long, stretched-out days with nothing to do. But Emma knew that all of the others, Taylor, Wes, Dixie, Perry, would be too busy at their own jobs, or getting everything sorted to return to university. And George... well, seeing him wasn’t a feasible option.

As Emma sipped her coffee, looking around the cluttered kitchen that she so desperately tried to keep tidy, she pondered over the events of the weekend. Harriet had been texting her constantly since Saturday afternoon, Robert Martin apparently forgotten, with updates about her and Elton’s conversations. Did Emma know that he was originally going to go to Oxford University but decided on Durham in the end? And did she know that Elton was half Irish? Oh, and that he once met Stephen Fry in London and shook his hand?

Yes, Emma did know all of that. But the nicer side of her made sure to humour Harriet in all of this. After all, she was the one who set them up in the first place. And it seemed to be going swimmingly, which Emma was genuinely happy about, seeing her little friend so excited. As annoying as Elton could sometimes be (and quite touchy, Emma had noticed) at least he was polite, engaging, witty. For all George said about Robert being a nice guy, Emma herself had little to no evidence of this. So what would Harriet gain from a guy like that?

Then there was the issue of George Knightley himself. For Emma, it seemed simple. Harriet was her friend, so anything to do with her was Emma’s business, and certainly not George’s. How would he know Robert Martin better than her? Why did he think he had the right to be nasty about Elton? How did he think it was acceptable to go around thrusting his negative prejudices about Frank Churchill in everybody’s face? George had his own group of friends from outside of the village - university pals, friends he had made whilst travelling, people that Emma had never met. Jane Fairfax. So why should he stick his nose into her business, tell her how to go about being a good friend, when he had only just returned to Highbury in the last few months? If anything, he was the one being shallow, assuming that everything Emma did was motivated by boredom and childishness! Why should she have to listen to his lectures, and his complaints, and his sarcastic remarks, and his stories from outside of the village, and his confessions of shagging Jane bloody Fairfax-

“Damn him!”

Emma startled herself with this outcry; Mr. Woodhouse dropped his spoon onto the table with a clatter, blinking at his daughter ferociously.

“Are you alright, dear? You seem slightly... vexed.”

“Yes, sorry. Yes. I’m...” Emma tried a smile. Mr. Woodhouse raised his eyebrows. “I’m fine.” She drained her coffee and stood up. “I’m going to start getting the house ready for John and Isabella, as long as you’re okay giving the living room a bit of a going over?”

“Yes, of course, plump the cushions and so on. Wonderful.” Mr. Woodhouse smiled to himself, returning to his newspaper. “Whenever would I do without you?”

Emma looked down at her father, placidly reading his newspaper in the weak sunlight coming through the window. She kissed the top of his head. “I don’t know, Dad.”

How could she ever leave Highbury? It would mean leaving him.

*

The day dragged along with a snail’s pace. Emma changed the sheets on every bed, blew up the air mattress, hoovered upstairs and downstairs, dusted the shelves, bleached every toilet and cleaned the kitchen until it sparkled.

Wiping her brow and undoubtedly getting some sort of cleaning product in her hair, Emma checked the time on her phone.

It was only half one. She sighed heavily and opened the fridge. It was practically empty, save for a few bottles of ketchup and a very depressed-looking leftover salad.

“Dad, I’m going to go and do a big shop for tonight!” At least she now had an excuse to leave the house. “I’ll grab us some lunch from the café on the way back, okay?”

Once she had heard a vague noise of agreement from upstairs, Emma found her purse and left the cottage. It was only when she was halfway down the short street that she realised she was wearing no makeup, and was still in jogging bottoms and a sweater.

“Shit.” Oh well. It wasn’t like she would see anybody on a Monday afternoon-

“Hi, Emma.”

She turned around; Robert Martin was stood behind her, looking like he would rather be anywhere else. He had a large gym bag on his back and was sweating slightly. Emma wrinkled her nose without meaning to, and Robert blushed.

“Uh, sorry. I just got done at the gym.”

“I really need to get to the shop, Rob-“

“Do you know why Harriet turned me down? I mean, she must have told you that I asked her out.” Emma looked at him properly. He was still avoiding her gaze, shuffling his feet together on the pavement. She didn’t have time for this.

“No, I don’t, Rob. Sorry.” She furtively checked her phone. “Look, I really need to go. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

For a moment, Robert raised his gaze to look into Emma’s eyes, looking like he was going to say something else. Then, he simply shrugged and walked away, crossing the road towards his house.

Emma continued walking. She had a heavy feeling in her stomach, but pushed it away as she carried on towards the shop. There was no use in feeling guilty over something that was for Harriet’s own benefit. No use at all.

There was only one supermarket in the whole of Highbury, and it was possibly one of the biggest buildings in the village. After a very stress-inducing hour spent marching around every aisle, grabbing all the necessities for a haphazard meal tonight and then trying to keep up with the ridiculously quick cashier, Emma was finally able to haul herself out of the shop with three huge plastic bags cutting into her arms. And she still had to stop by at the café.

Today was not a good day.

When Emma wrestled her way into the café, she saw that it was unusually busy. Almost every table was occupied, which was a complete rarity. As she moved between the tables, trying not to knock anything over with her bags, she could see Harriet serving a customer. Despite her bad mood, Emma smiled at the progress Harriet had made in the job.

The customer moved away, and Emma was able to move towards the counter. Harriet’s face brightened immediately. “Em! What are you doing here, it’s your day off.”

“I just came in to grab some lunch,” Emma held her bags up. “I’ve been food shopping. Dad forgot to tell me that my mental sister is coming to stay, along with John and all the kids, so it’s been a bit hectic at home.” She looked around. “Why’s it so busy?”

“No idea,” Harriet spoke over her shoulder as she flipped a toastie over. “A huge surge of people came in for lunch, so even Bates is working instead of just sitting in the office.”

Emma looked around; indeed, Miss Bates was placing a cup of coffee down in front of a customer, talking incessantly. Emma knee she would have to make a quick escape, lest she get dragged into an inane conversation with her manager.

“Is it just you two?” She turned back to Harriet, who was now bagging up a few sandwiches. “Is, um, is George not helping?”

“No, I rang him but he said he was too busy.”

“Busy? What’s he got to be busy over?”

“I think he’s gone to the university today, something to do with his MA.”

That sounded about right. There were days where George didn’t even want to think about his MA, let alone look at it, and others where it was all he could focus on. Emma still wasn’t completely sure what his postgraduate was in - was it international relations, or environmental politics? - but what she did know was that a lot of George’s time was dedicated to travelling to the local university and attending the lectures he hated so much, or hunching over his laptop reading and writing and theorising, which he much preferred. Emma had once asked him how he fitted everything in, the shifts at the café, the sporadic gardening work, the tiresome slog of his postgraduate, whilst still maintaining a social life. He had laughed and said that, compared to many people, his life wasn’t that hectic. Emma knew he was simply waiting until his MA was finished, which would take him another eight months or so, before he could leave his home town once again, move to a big city and get a job he really loved.

That was something Emma didn’t like to dwell on, despite often telling him how much better her life would be without him. He always rolled his eyes and shoved her gently when he said that.

“Here you go!” Harriet handed a paper bag to Emma, smiling brightly. “A couple of sandwiches, and I’ve put two coffees in there as well.”

“Thanks, Harriet. Don’t tell Bates I was here, she hasn’t spied me yet.”

Harriet winked conspiratorially. “I won’t. Oh, by the way - I’m seeing Elton tomorrow!”

Emma raised her eyebrows. This was all moving a lot quicker than she had anticipated. “Really? What are you doing?”

“I’m going to the morning service at Church, he said he’s doing a sermon and I should come along.” Harriet was beaming, curling a strand of dark hair around her finger. “Oh, he said to ask you if you’re free as well. It’s one of his first proper sermons!”

“Oh, wow. Right. Um, I have the morning shift tomorrow.” Emma frowned. “Are you religious?”

“Um... no, not really. But it should be fun!”

Emma could think of at least ten things that would be more fun than going to one of Elton’s sermons at the poky little Church, including downing a bottle of vinegar and sleeping in a dumpster for the night. But, nevertheless, she smiled and wished Harriet well before leaving, looking back once to see the girl waving and grinning at her.

Then, as if God was punishing her, as soon as Emma stepped out of the café, the heavens opened and freezing drizzles of rain started falling, dribbling down the back of her top and making her shiver.

Emma sighed and set off towards home.

*

After the shopping was put away, the sandwiches were eaten and Mr. Woodhouse was nicely set up by his garden window with a pair of binoculars and his bird identification book, Emma was finally able to lock her bedroom door and flop down onto her bed. Mournfully, she remembered that for the next five nights, her sleeping arrangements would be much less comfortable.

Bloody Isabella. As much as Emma loved her nieces and nephews, was it really necessary to have five of them? Isabella didn’t even like kids that much.

Or her husband.

Emma had never hit it off with John Knightley that much. She remembered him being a tall, skinny boy resembling a praying mantis at the age of seventeen, completely robotic in his anxiety around Mr. and Mrs. Woodhouse, and completely enamoured with his high school sweetheart. At the age of nine, Emma had been less interested with her sister’s affairs of the heart, and more interested in playing childish pranks on George, who started spending time at their house a lot. In fairness, when Mrs. Woodhouse passed away and Emma didn’t know what to do with her emotions, she remembered John sitting in the living room with Isabella for hours at a time, holding her hand and passing her tissues. Emma never remembered him being a bad person.

But, as Mr. Woodhouse maintained, they got married far too young. Isabella was just nineteen and John was twenty when they tied the knot. Now they had five young children, and John was so disengaged from the family unit that Isabella might as well have been a single mother. Where Isabella was too uptight, John was too laid back. She was painfully practical, he was sardonic and useless. Emma was at a loss as to why they ever had kids, and all of them so close in age, instead of just getting a quick, clean divorce. It would have been much easier.

John’s tendency for ironic, slightly mean humour was much like his younger brother’s - except, as Emma had vocalised to her father, who was in full agreement - George wasn’t anywhere near as nasty, and had the right sort of charm to carry it off. In short, he was a much nicer man than his brother.

Even if he was an overbearing, preachy prick at times.

As Emma lay back on her bed, her mind drifted to George, as it was sometimes wont to do. For all of their bickering, all of her wind-ups and all of his lecturing, Emma knew that she loved him very much. He had never been a brother to her, they had established that very early on. She couldn’t put a finger on their relationship, not really. He cared for Emma’s father almost as much as she did, which made her happy. He was always there to give advice when she needed it, and praised her when she did something right.

Which is why it was so difficult when she did things wrong and he called her out.

Realistically, she should hate George Knightley. Emma knew in her heart that she was spoilt; she had lived almost twenty-one years never truly wanting for anything, always being praised for her beauty and wit and intelligence, even when she messed up. And, admittedly, Emma liked it that way. Surely, that didn’t make her a bad person?

She rolled over onto her front, clutching a pillow under her chin. The last argument with George had been particularly bad.

_“Robert Martin isn’t good enough for Harriet, he just isn’t.”_

_“You really are shallow, you know that? You barely know the man, yet you insist that you know his character and pressure a young, impressionable girl into turning down what could be a really wonderful first relationship for her.”_

And of course he had it all wrong. Emma laughed quietly to herself as she thought about it, about how angry he had been over something that didn’t affect him in the slightest. How loud his voice had been. How his blue eyes narrowed when he listened to her retaliate. How close he had been to her.

Objectively, Emma knew that George was attractive. But lately, since he had gotten back from travelling God knew where, she had actually begun to... notice, instead of just acknowledging that he was handsome. His eyes had always been his best feature, Emma thought, those dark, piercing blue pools that seemed as though they could stare into anybody’s soul, hooded by dark eyebrows. His hair had always been dark blonde, but was lighter recently, probably because of the sun, and contrasted with his tanned skin. George always made fun of Emma for being so pale.

Emma shut her eyes and remembered being able to see every bit of stubble on his face, every fleck of colour in his eyes, when they stood face to face in the café, breathing heavily.

She remembered the way his large, veiny hands flexed as he shouted, before balling into fists by his sides.

She remembered the moisture on his lips as he licked them in the car, just before she shut her eyes and leaned in.

She thought about how his lips would feel pressed against her throat, or licking the shell of her ear. How his hands would feel gripping her waist. How his eyes would look, gazing up at her from between her legs.

“What the fuck?”

Emma surprised herself, opening her eyes. She really needed to stop with the unintentional outbursts today, they weren’t very comely at all.

But what was more important, was this: why on God’s green earth was she getting hot and bothered over George Knightley?

Thankfully, a commotion downstairs forbade her from being able to actually dwell on any of these thoughts; Emma mentally shoved them to the back of her head and locked them away to be dealt with later.

Coming down the stairs, she could see suitcases being moved in through the front door, accompanied by familiar voices greeting each other.

“Auntie Emma!”

Henry, Little John and Bella all hurtled their way towards Emma when she reached the bottom of the stairs, effectively knocking her off her feet. She sat down on the bottom step, laughing and kissing the children. It really was a delight to see them after almost a year. Isabella, as usual, looked harried. She stooped to give Emma an air-kiss on the cheek before marching through the hallway, demanding to know where everyone was sleeping, followed by a very worried-looking Mr. Woodhouse. John raised his eyebrows and greeted Emma standoffishly, wheeling the buggy with the twins in through to the kitchen. The three eldest children clambered off Emma and ran after their parents, ready to climb all over their grandfather in excitement. Almost as soon as they had arrived, the Knightleys had upturned the house and moved right through it, leaving Emma breathless.

She patted down her top before going to stand up, but saw a hand extended out in front of her.

George Knightley was stood above her, looking down unsmilingly.

Emma considered for a moment, before taking his hand gingerly and standing up.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Emma dropped his hand. They stood in the hall, slightly apart, the only noise coming from the loudly ticking clock on the wall and the commotion from the kitchen. George’s eyes were boring into her; Emma felt her cheeks growing pink at the thoughts she was having just five minutes previously, and, for once, looked away abashedly.

“Em, let’s just forget what happened at the weekend, okay?”

This was surprising; George was the one who wanted to talk things out all the time, whilst Emma either wanted to have the last word, which made the arguments last longer, or simply move on before it got too deep. Emma looked at George’s face properly; he looked tired. She smiled.

“Okay. That’s fine, George.”

“Good.”

He held out his hand again.

“Shall we?”

Before she could think about it too much, Emma slipped her hand into his and they walked into the kitchen together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longish chapter!! oblivious emma!! 
> 
> this section deviates from the plot slightly, i wanted some emma introspection without too much action for a while, but i promise the next chapter will be more in tune with the canon and be more plotty - some elton content coming soon, gross


	6. Chapter 6

To her surprise, Emma once again found herself to be the only person awake in the house - apart from George. 

They were sat in the living room together, ignoring the used wine glasses and dirty plates littering the coffee table. All the light was coming from the fireplace and the soft yellow lamps; it was such a cloudy night that no rays of moonlight could push through the darkness. 

The evening had been... okay. The kids were happy to be there, especially to see Emma and Mr. Woodhouse, and the food that George had insisted on making (after he forcibly removed Emma from coming anywhere near the kitchen) had been lovely. Whilst it was nice to finally see Isabella again, Emma couldn’t help but recognise the tension in the air at certain points. John refusing to help when one of the twins started crying; Isabella raising her eyebrows when Henry called Emma ‘Cool Auntie Em’; George pointedly looking away from Emma when Mr. Woodhouse innocently brought up Philip Elton in passing conversation - he had suggested that the kids be taken to one of his children’s Church workshops in the week, which John had nastily refuted. It was all very nice, on the surface, but Emma was secretly pleased when Isabella and John finally retired to bed. Oh well - only five more days.  
Mr. Woodhouse had gone upstairs around the same time as the kids, and it had been admittedly very awkward with just the four, Emma, George, John and Isabella, downstairs. 

George dropped his head back against the armchair, groaning slightly. “God, when did my brother become so awful?”

“And when did my sister become so spineless?”

He looked up and laughed, which made Emma laugh too. “They’re a terrible couple.” 

“Horrible.”

“Horrendous.”

“Atrocious.”

“Dreadful.” 

Emma laughed again, doing the same as George and putting her head against the back of the sofa. The silence was comfortable and warm, until she decided to speak again. 

“I don’t understand why they stayed together. It’s like... it’s like they had this perfect relationship, and one day it all just went wrong, so what was their solution? Have five kids, one after the other. What kind of problem-solving is that?”

George stayed quiet for a moment. Then he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I guess it’s complicated. Relationships are rarely easy, Emma.”

“No, I know that.” Emma felt too relaxed to let herself get truly riled up by his tone, which he probably didn’t realise sounded slightly patronising. “I know. I just wish it was.”

George turned around towards her, leaning onto the back of the armchair again. Emma blinked. 

“Have you...” He paused, evidently trying to find the right words. “Have you ever thought about being in a relationship?”

“Um. Yeah. Of course I have.”

“With whom?”

Emma opened her mouth but didn’t speak for a moment. If she were to be honest, completely and totally honest, George would run from the room and never return. So she decided to be the other version of honest, the honest that wouldn’t cause a horrific rupture in their lives. 

“It’s embarrassing.”

George grinned. “No, come on. Tell me.”

Before Emma could speak again, George let out a thunderous laugh. “Oh, wait. I know who. Frank Churchill.” 

Emma felt herself blush. “I mean...”

“I knew it, Em. You go on about him so much.”

“I do not!”

George put on a high voice, an awful mimic of Emma’s that made her giggle. “‘Does anyone know if Frank’s back in the village yet? Oh, George, don’t you think that Frank is so handsome? Isn’t he so well-mannered? Did I ever tell you about when he looked at himself in the mirror and became so transfixed with his own reflection that he couldn’t move?’” 

“You sound jealous.”

It was George’s turn to blush. “I am not jealous of Frank Churchill. I think he’s a cock.”

“A cock?”

“Yes. A cock.” 

“You seem determined to be prejudiced against him.”

“And you seem determined to be prejudiced in his favour.”

“So what if I am? I think he’s a nice guy, George. Plus, you’ve hardly met him, so how can you pass judgement?” 

George rested his chin on his fist, leaning over the armchair indignantly. “Yes I have.”

“When?”

“Em,” he chuckled. “Like you’ve said many times, everyone knows everyone here. Every time I came back from university, every time I’m in the village, I either see him prancing around like a tit, showing off for all his admirers, or I hear some stupid story about him from you.”

“What kind of stupid stories?”

“Like when he drove all the way to London for a haircut?”

Almost against her will, Emma shouted out a laugh and clapped a hand over her mouth. George threw his head back and laughed as well, until both of them were almost crying. 

Emma wiped her eyes, finally able to speak. “Okay, that... that was pretty stupid.” She looked down, noticed that she was fiddling with the hem of her top. George was watching her hands. 

“Are you happy being single, Em?”

Onto the heavy stuff now, apparently. “I guess. I mean, I’ve been single for nearly twenty-one years.” She smiled. “Well, apart from Charlie Bing, but that was in Year Six so I don’t think that counts.”

“But do you eventually want to find someone? Like, really. I know you fancy Frank and you’ve thought about it, but you always say that you’re happy by yourself, being ‘Cool Auntie Em’ and all that.” He looked straight at her. “I think you would do really well if you... had someone. I think it would make you happy.”

Emma swallowed. 

“Just not Frank Churchill.” 

“Why...” Her voice sounded raspy, so she cleared her throat quietly. She didn’t like where this was going. “Why are you bothered about this?”

George frowned. “I’m not bothered, I just want to see you happy.”

“You think I can’t be happy on my own?”

“No, that’s not what I’m...” George pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced. “That’s not what I mean. I just worry about you.”

“Why on earth would you worry about me in that respect?”

“Because you’re like a... you’re like my... oh, I don’t know. I care about you, you know that. What I worry about is you falling into the arms of the first man who gives you any real attention, and accepting less than what you deserve from him.”

This stung. Emma sat up straight. “You think I’m that... that easy? That I’ll just fling myself onto the nearest male specimen because I don’t know what love is?”

“No, I-“

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.” Emma narrowed her eyes. “What is this really about?”

George gave a smile which was more of an upturned frown. He looked away, then looked down and back at Emma. When he spoke, his voice was low, and Emma wondered when it had become the norm that they were both so serious with each other. “I don’t want you to get hurt by someone like Frank Churchill, okay? I just feel... protective over you.” 

*

Emma hadn’t been lying when she told Harriet she had the morning shift to avoid Elton’s service; she had to open the café at eight, as usual, and on that dreary Tuesday morning, she was the only one there. Luckily, Emma had been awake so early that she was able to slip out of the house before anyone was awake, vaguely hearing the cries of the twins from the front bedroom as she shut the door and walked through the front garden. 

The café was empty and eerily silent as she dismantled the alarm system and began unlocking the cash register. As she leaned up to switch on the main lights from the wall, Emma winced. Her back was completely fucked from sleeping on the sofa. George had left at about midnight, saying he had to be up early to visit his mother. Mrs. Knightley was a quiet widow who lived alone in a cottage not far from Emma’s house; George often said that visiting her and Mr. Woodhouse was the only reason he came back to the village. Emma always gave him a shove when he said that. 

Emma hadn’t told George that she was sleeping on the sofa; he hadn’t asked, so she didn’t see any reason to tell him. He also hadn’t noticed the bedding that she had shoved down the side of the armchair. She knew that if he found out, he would have insisted to the point of force that she sleep in his flat for the duration of Isabella’s stay - whilst this would usually have been an option that Emma would leap on and take advantage of, her previous... thoughts, about George, stopped her from going home with him.  
Which was fine, obviously. Those thoughts hadn’t bothered her when she was lying on the sofa (after waking up for the fifth time in the night, trying to find a comfortable spot) because she simply did not allow them to. They were to stay, locked in a strongbox at the back of her mind, never to be revisited. 

It wasn’t right, to think about George in that way. 

As she started assembling the various sandwiches and rolls to go on display for the day, Emma’s mind wandered to Harriet. She would be awake by now, up extra early to get ready for Elton’s sermon at the Church. Would she straighten her hair, dab on some makeup in the hopes that he would spy her sat in one of the pews and nod in acknowledgment? Perhaps give her a secret wink? Emma smiled at the idea of Harriet looking down shyly, blushing prettily. From the way she had sounded over text, Robert Martin had been forgotten within a matter of days.

It took until half eight to finish preparing the cold food for that day and display it in the glass container next to the counter. Then Emma had to wipe and lay the tables, clean the windows, start the huge, shuddering coffee machines up, mop the floor, update the specials menu, nip out to buy more milk for the back office, put out the tip jar, and disinfect the customer toilets. 

By half nine, Emma was able to sit down behind the counter with a coffee. No customers yet. 

A light drizzle had began outside. She sighed; it would be another long day in paradise. 

*

By noon, there had been one customer, and that had only been the postman delivering bills, picking up a cheese sandwich. Emma looked at the dilapidated clock on the wall; Harriet should have clocked in for her shift ten minutes ago. She was probably flirting with Elton, coyly leaning against a pillar in the Church, baring her eyelashes at him, Emma thought bitterly. It was quite a change from her positive thoughts about the situation that same morning.

The tiredness had definitely caught up with her.

“Hi Em!” The bell on the door dinged, and suddenly Harriet was bouncing towards Emma, waving. Elton was behind her, looking vaguely ridiculous in a dog collar and all black outfit. 

“You’re late.” Emma grumbled, yawning. Harriet furrowed her brow. 

“Oh, gosh, sorry. I didn’t realise.” She peered at Emma’s face. “Are you okay, Em? You look tired.”

“Yeah, well, you would be too if you had seven extra people staying in your tiny house and you had to sleep on the sofa.”

Harriet exchanged a grimace with Elton, who shrugged sympathetically. “That sucks. Why don’t you stay with George?”

Emma ignored this last question and went towards the coffee machine, looking back at Elton. “Flat white?”

Elton smiled. “Yes, please.”

Harriet almost skipped off towards the back office to get her apron; when Elton wasn’t looking, she gave Emma a not-so-subtle squeal of excitement. Emma gave what she hoped was a convincing smile and looked around for the right sized cup. 

She was fully intending to make Elton’s coffee in comfortable silence, hand it over to him and make polite small talk for the remaining thirty seconds that they had until Harriet came back out, ready for her shift. Instead, Elton did something completely unprecedented: he came behind the counter, stood next to Emma. 

“You should’ve come to the service.” He smirked down at her.

“You know I’m agnostic, and I had work anyway, as you can see.” Emma pointedly looked away from Elton, finishing off the froth on his coffee.

“Ah, you only think you’re agnostic. You see-“

“It’s nice that Harriet came though, isn’t it?” Emma cut him off; she had heard too many of Elton’s philosophical and theological ramblings in her lifetime. 

“Oh, yeah. She’s a great girl.”

“Yeah?” Emma leaned against the counter, smiling encouragingly. “Don’t you think she’s just adorable? Did she tell you she’s going to university soon but still living here, so you’ll still be able to see her.”

“Oh, um. Cool.”

“And isn’t she so pretty?”

“I guess-“

“Oh, look!” Emma pawed around in her apron before pulling out her phone. She scrolled through her camera roll until she found the right picture. “Look how pretty she looks.” 

The picture was from the night that Emma first introduced Harriet to alcohol. Dixie had pulled her phone out to take a picture of the two sat in the pub booth, saying they looked “completely adorable”. Emma had looked away as the picture was taken, replying to something that Taylor had said, so only her side profile was in the picture. Harriet however was smiling straight at the camera, both her mouth and eyes wide. Emma had to admit, she looked completely gorgeous - and Elton seemed to agree. 

“Oh, wow. Yeah. Will you, um. Will you send me that?” 

Emma quickly looked up at him; Elton was leaning over her shoulder, still looking at the picture. She grinned - this was exactly what she had hoped would happen. 

“Sure, I’ll send it to you now.” 

Elton stayed just long enough to say goodbye to Harriet when she came back out with her work clothes on. She watched him leave and walk back towards the Church, chin resting on her fist. 

“It was such a lovely sermon, Emma. I actually made some notes.”

“Really?” Emma replied absentmindedly. “Well, do you want to know something exciting?”

“What?” Harriet turned around, eyes like dinner plates.

“I showed Elton that picture of us from the other day, at the pub? He asked me to send it to him.”

Harriet clapped her hands together and squealed. “Oh my gosh! Do you really think he actually likes me then?”

“Well, he must do!”

The rest of the day dragged on ridiculously slowly. Whilst Emma was very happy about the plan she had orchestrated, and whilst Harriet’s excitement made her feel satisfied, she couldn’t help but wish, by the sixth hour rolled around, she would stop going on about it. 

*

“You know, that Chinese really wasn’t as nice as the one near us. Don’t you think, John?”  
“It was fine.”  
“I’m not saying it wasn’t fine, I was just saying that the one we usually get food from is nicer, isn’t it?”  
“I guess.”  
“God, why do you always get like this?”  
“Like what?”

Isabella didn’t deign to reply to this last sardonic question, simply pursing her lips and looking away. Emma glanced furtively at her father, who raised his eyebrows and looked away. Emma had to take a sip of her wine to prevent herself from giggling. 

It was the second night of the Knightleys stay, and Emma was already sick of them. Her shift had been long and boring and all she wanted to do was go to sleep in her own room, but it had been commandeered by the kids, who were now all in bed. John had suggested a takeaway instead of anyone cooking, which had seemed like a good idea, but had now caused yet another passive aggressive argument between him and his wife. 

As usual, Emma tried to diffuse tension by steering the conversation away. “So, John, how’s work? Isabella said you were up for a promotion.”

“She knows I don’t want the promotion, so I don’t see why she keeps getting excited about it.”

Isabella leaned towards Emma, ignoring her husband. “And I don’t see why he doesn’t want to get the new job, because it would mean more money for us.”

John sighed petulantly. “And a miserable time at work for me.”

“It isn’t like you’re already the happiest bunny in the field, is it?”

“Fantastic logic there, dear. If I’m already unhappy, where’s the harm in adding another load on top?” 

God, forget what George said the night before; Emma definitely didn’t want to be in a relationship if it would end up like John and Isabella’s. 

Mr. Woodhouse went to bed shortly after this eruption, closely followed by John. Emma had to deal with ten minutes of her sister rambling about how crap of a husband John was, and how much nicer George was than his brother, before she stomped off to bed as well, leaving Emma to do the clearing up. She stood in the doorway to the living room, looking at the scene in front of her; the coffee table was littered with empty takeaway boxes and wine glasses, and Emma hadn’t even made her little bed on the sofa yet. 

Could she face another night of crippling back pain and almost no sleep?

After another moment’s hesitation, she pulled out her phone. 

“Hey.”

“Hey, Em.” She could hear slight scuffling on the other end of the line. “You okay? You’re not stranded again, are you?”

“No, not quite.” Emma laughed softly, holding the phone against her ear with her shoulder as she picked up a few plates and boxes. “But can I ask a favour?”

“Depends what it is.” She could almost hear him grin down the phone.

“Um, I’m having to sleep in the living room whilst John and Isabella stay because the kids are using my bedroom, and the sofa’s all lumpy and hard and I’m so tired-“

“Do you want to sleep at mine until they go?” 

Emma shut her eyes. It’s like he read her mind. “Would that be okay?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll come pick you up and you can help me with the pullout bed.” 

He abruptly ended the call. Emma smiled and thanked God for George Knightley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i can’t have a george knightley then i DON’T. WANT. ANYONE. 
> 
> hope you’re all enjoying! btw look out for a little surprise that isn’t really a surprise in two chapter’s time hehe
> 
> p.s. did anyone notice my tiny little pride & prejudice crossover? ;)


	7. Chapter 7

Emma’s alarm shocked her awake. She grumpily rolled over and slapped it off; it was her day off, and just her luck that she should forget to unset her alarm. After dozing for a while, Emma eventually padded through to the tiny kitchen and realised the flat was empty again. A note was stuck on the coffee machine:

‘Lecture day today but I’ll see you later, have a good day off - G’

She smiled and took the note off before switching on the machine, leaning against the counter and trying to wake herself up.

John, Isabella and the kids were only supposed to stay for five days, tops. It was now the eighth day of their visit, and Emma’s patience was wearing thin. George seemed to think that they needed new surroundings, maybe their house outside the village was depressing them. Emma had grumbled that it obviously wasn’t working, and that they’d just transferred their relationship problems to a new setting.

Her setting.

Usually, Emma would see a failing partnership and take it upon herself to right the situation in some way. But, this time, she really couldn’t be bothered, and for once she agreed with George and concluded that it wasn’t her business.

It was Mr. Woodhouse that Emma felt sorry for. It wasn’t like she had completely abandoned him: Emma, and occasionally George, stayed long enough to make dinner and spend time with the kids before going back to the flat, usually at about midnight. So everything was essentially normal for Emma, going to work and spending time in the cottage, except she wasn’t having to sleep on a sofa made from the rocks at Stone Henge. Mr. Woodhouse, however, didn’t appreciate any change in routine. Whilst Emma knew that he was happy to have his eldest little girl back, and the grandchildren, she was also aware that his feelings towards John were just as unfavourable as her own. Consequently, he was spending even more time reading and birdwatching (often happily accompanied by Little John, Henry and Isabella Jr.) whilst Isabella passive-aggressively cleaned the cottage or organised reluctant outings into the village, leaving John to rub his temples over his work laptop and ignore the children.

After the fifth day, Emma had started leaving some things at George’s - her toothbrush, her work clothes, underwear, phone chargers. Just for the sake of convenience; Emma wasn’t sure how much longer the Knightleys would stay, and she didn’t want to ask just yet, lest it cause Isabella to have a neurotic meltdown of some kind. And, to her surprise, she and George hadn’t had any major fallouts. George seemed grateful to have someone in the flat in the evenings, just to spend time with, and any mornings they spent together (if Emma didn’t have an early shift and George wasn’t taking the bus to the university) were relaxed and comfortable, which they would have definitely not been with three children running around and two babies crying from the crack of dawn.

She stirred some cream into her coffee and checked the time on her phone. It was ten, so Harriet would have opened the shop a few hours ago, most likely accompanied by the often elusive Miss Bates. Admittedly, Harriet was getting on Emma’s nerves, which she hated to say, even privately to herself. It was Elton this, Elton that. Elton invited her out for a drink, Elton called her last night, blah blah. The girl talked more about Philip Elton than the fact that she was starting university in just two weeks! However, Emma knew this was partly her own doing, and so she tried not to complain about it too much - she just smiled and acted interested whenever Harriet was blathering on.

Harriet hadn’t mentioned Robert Martin in almost a fortnight, and Emma was pretty sure they no longer spent their lunch breaks together. Which was fine - Rob was attractive, sure, in his own way, and Emma knew he would probably have no end of grungey alternative girls throwing themselves at him when his band finally ‘made it big’. She laughed lightly to herself at this thought as she sipped her coffee.

Emma risked a glance towards George’s bedroom, where the door had been left ajar. For all the time she spent at the flat when George first moved in six or so months ago, Emma hadn’t seen his room fully furnished. She often wondered why he had even bought a flat back in Highbury if he was planning on moving out when his MA was finished, when his mother’s cottage was available. He still had cardboard boxes lying around the place that Emma was itching to open and put away. She put it down to him wanting his own space, which (especially given the last week she had dealt with) Emma could understand.

There it was. His room. Empty and tantalisingly available. Emma mentally smacked herself on the wrist for being so... pervy about it. But it wasn’t like she was going to be sneaking around; she was simply curious.

Emma put her mug down and moved slowly towards the door, almost expecting George to suddenly burst his way into the flat, despite knowing that he was long gone to the university, and was probably already sat in a lecture hall, bored to tears. Almost without realising, she had opened the door fully and was stood in George’s room.

It was small, like the rest of his flat, and quite bare. Emma wrinkled her nose at the half-full coffee mug on his bedside cabinet and made a mental reminder to put it in the sink for washing up. Apart from that, it was fairly tidy; no clothes lay on the floor or crumpled up in the corner, his bed was made and all of his drawers were shut. The desk under the tiny, prison cell-like window was very neat. Emma bent down to look at the pile of books stacked on the desk’s surface: _‘Man, the State and War’_ ; _‘Who Rules the World?’_ ; _‘Introduction to International Relations’_. Emma almost put herself to sleep just reading the titles imprinted on the spines; at least she now knew what is MA was in.

The walls were a depressing colour that wasn’t quite yellow and wasn’t quite white, most of them bare apart from the space above the bed’s headboard. Emma wandered towards his bed, absently wondering how many girls he had brought back to the flat who had seen this particular bed. A few film posters were tacked onto the wall: _‘12 Angry Men’_ , _‘The Godfather II’_ and _‘Rosemary’s Baby’_. Emma recalled a time from years ago when George, aged sixteen, had forced Emma to watch _‘Rosemary’s Baby’_ with him at his mother’s house. Half an hour in, Emma had started crying hysterically, and had to be given hot chocolate and cuddles by Mrs. Knightley. George had been thoroughly told off for showing his friend such an inappropriate film.

Emma smiled at the memory. She had never liked horror films much.

A smaller collection of prints were mounted just under the film posters. Emma considered for a moment, then climbed onto his bed so she could take a closer look. There were seven or eight photos that George had evidently printed out; about five of them looked like photos from university, including a blurry candid of George and a guy that Emma didn’t recognise at a party and a group photo on graduation day. Emma remembered that day well - it was stiflingly warm, and she had felt a swell of pride in her heart, holding onto her dad’s arm, as George threw his cap into the air, officially a university graduate.

One of the pictures, however, she recognised. It was faded due to age, so the colours looked slightly washed out. A young girl with blonde hair and braces grinned at the camera, a pale, skinny arm around the neck of the gangly boy stood next to her, grimacing and pulling away slightly. Emma and George. If Emma was correct, it was from her father’s birthday party, almost a decade ago. Her mother had been gone for just over a year, although you wouldn’t be able to tell from looking at the young Emma in the picture. Despite his grimace, the barely teenage George looked happy to be clung onto by his companion, awkward with his posh tie and too-long hair, but merry.

And George had that picture on his wall.

They really had grown up together, Emma thought to herself. For all of their bickering and arguing, ups and downs, they had some wonderful history behind them. And why would she ever want to jeopardise that?

Suddenly, her phone rang, startling Emma out of her reverie. Harriet’s name came up on the screen, and Emma took a deep breath before answering.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yes, I just, I’m on my break, and, I just, I’ve been dying to talk to you, and-“

“What is it?”

“It’s, well-“

“God, stop dithering! Is this so important that you couldn’t tell me over text?”

Weirdly, Harriet sounded more out of breath than usual. Before Emma could end the call, Harriet made an odd squeaking noise.

“Are you alright? Is something wrong?”

“No, no, I’m fine, everything’s fine.”

“So what-?”

“I slept with Elton!”

Well. That was certainly unexpected.

Emma sat down heavily on George’s bed. Vaguely, she registered the smell of his cologne.

Harriet, innocent, virginal, over-excitable Harriet Smith, slept with Philip Elton?

“Em?” Harriet sounded so nervous she might cry. “Are you there?”

A pause. Her brain finally caught up with her mouth. “Uh, yes. Sorry, sorry. I... wow.”

Harriet only breathed heavily down the phone.

“How are you feeling?” Emma ventured.

“Not that much different, really.”

“Did it... did it hurt?”

“A bit, but then it didn’t, and then it was fine.” Emma could practically hear her face break into a grin. “Oh, Em! This must mean he really likes me, he really really likes me!”

Emma tried to let this sink in for a moment. Why was she so put out by this? After all, this was what she wanted, what she had orchestrated. Something just felt... off.

Surely she couldn’t be jealous?

Emma almost laughed at the thought and quickly shook herself out of the funk, smiling down the phone to try and sound more enthusiastic.

“That’s great, Harriet. Really great, darling. I’m happy for you.”

“It’s thanks to you, Em! I might have ended up going to university never having kissed anyone, let alone have sex with them!”

Emma winced as her throat constricted slightly. “Hah, yeah. That would have been a bummer.”

“And Elton said we can still see each other whilst I’m studying, because I’ll be back at weekends anyway. Isn’t that great?”

“Yes. Yes, absolutely.” Emma heard Harriet take a deep breath, obviously about to launch into another story, and cut her off. “Sorry, babe, I need to go. Um, my toast is burning.”

“Oh, okay! I’ll text you later.”

“Bye.”

Emma put the phone down. Without thinking, she lay back on George’s bed, then sprang back up again. She couldn’t be that creepy.

Why did her heart feel so heavy all of a sudden? It didn’t make any logical sense, and if there was one thing that Emma likes to rely on, it was good old logic.

It wasn’t logical that Harriet should lose her virginity to Elton after knowing him for what felt like five minutes. It wasn’t logical that Emma should be jealous of the friend who idolised her just because she had sex with someone. It wasn’t logical that Emma’s head was sometimes filled with fantasies about Frank Churchill that morphed into a certain blonde gentleman that she was currently staying with.

None of it made any sense, and it stank.

Quickly, Emma picked up her phone and called him.

“George?”

“Hey, Em, I’m just about to go into a seminar-“

“I’m staying at the flat today, I don’t want to go home right now.”

“Oh, okay-“

“Can we get really drunk tonight?”

“Um. Sure. Any reason?”

“Just get us some food on the way home. I’ll talk to you later.”

She ended the call. Emma lay back on George’s bed and decided what to do with her day.

*

“Honey, I’m home!”

George’s sarcastic voice rang out through the flat as Emma heard him struggle with the door, accompanied by the promising noise of plastic bags and clinking bottles. She came out of the kitchen to greet him. For a very weird, George stared at her with wide eyes, making Emma feel like her skin was burning. Then he blinked and everything went back to normal.

Odd.

“What’ve you got here, then?” Emma took a bag off him as he walked past and peered inside. “Vodka! Good man.”

“From the sounds of it,” George called out from the kitchen. “You sounded like you wanted more of a shots-and-pizza night rather than a red-wine-and-fancy-dinner night.” He stuck his head out of the kitchen door, eyebrows raised. “Am I correct?”

“You are.” Emma said, following him through to the kitchen. She hopped up on the counter and watched him unpack the shopping. “Supermarket pizza? Cheapskate.”

“Didn’t see you offering to pay.”

“There’d better be pepperoni.”

“Of course there’s pepperoni, do you think I’m a monster?” He straightened up after shutting the freezer. “So. What’s up?”

“Make some drinks and then I’ll tell you.”

“Your wish is my command.”

A short while, a couple of pizzas and quite a few vodka and Cokes later, the pair were lounging in the living room. Emma had put away the pullout bed whilst cleaning the flat (George had looked around in amazement when he finally realised his home was sparkling) so she was lying with her feet up on the plain old sofa. George was on the ‘squashy chair’ as he called it, his large feet resting on an unopened cardboard box.

“When are you going to unpack your stuff?” Emma said, hiccuping. George laughed at her slurred words.

“I don’t know, honestly. I don’t know why I bought this place, it isn’t like I’m staying for long.”

“Probably because it was dirt cheap.”

“Now, what about this place screams cheap to you?” George ironically waved his hands around, drawing Emma’s attention to the cracks in the walls, the faded carpet and the tiny kitchen. She giggled and rolled her eyes.

“So,” George took another slug of his drink. “Harriet and Elton.”

“Elton and Harriet.”

“You know what I’m going to say...”

“If you even think about saying any words such as... such as ‘meddling’, or ‘business’ or, or, or ‘inevitable’, I will kick you.”

“You wound me, Em. All I was going to say was that it’s a bit weird. Come on, you have to admit, even though you’re their fairy godmother or whatever.”

Emma sighed and looked down into her drunk. “Yeah. Yeah, okay it’s weird. It’s like... I made her, you know?”

There was a heavy silence, before George burst out laughing, throwing his head back. Emma could see the stubble on his neck. “Oh, my God. Don’t be such an idiot.”

“Hey, what did I say? Shut up, Knightley, stop laughing!”

“Oh, it’s Knightley now, is it?” George smirked. “I see how it is.”

Now that they had mentioned it, Emma didn’t want to let the matter drop. It was probably the alcohol. “It’s just, I don’t know. It was fun to, like, imagine them together, you know? It was nice to see Harriet excited, and I was interested to see where it was going. I didn’t think they’d actually have sex this soon.”

“So you admit you do it for fun? Matchmaking is your playtime?”

“No!” Emma almost growled in frustration, earning a raised eyebrow from George. Her head span slightly as she leaned forward to put her drink down on the coffee table. “No. I mean, yes it was fun, but I also like seeing my friends happy. You know that.”

“And what about you?” George was suddenly looking at her very... intensely.

“What about me?” Emma laughed nervously.

“Don’t you get to be happy?”

“We’ve discussed this. I’m very happy, thank you very much.”

“Hmm. You’re also an awful liar.”

“No I’m not! And I’m not lying.”

“When you lie your ears go pink. And your ears have gone pink.”

Emma clapped her hands over her ears. They certainly felt very hot.

“Whatever.” She grumbled. “I bet Elton wasn’t very good in bed anyway.”

“Oh! I get it now.” George sipped his drink again and sat up. “You’re jealous because Harriet’s getting some and you’re not.”

Emma’s mouth opened but no sound came out, so she just ended up gawking at the man sat in front of her. The nerve of him! She wanted to verbally beat him up, have another shot of vodka and start an argument - but he spoke again.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

He was so fucking right. He always was.

“Yes.” Emma’s voice was almost a whisper. To break the tension, she leaned back and groaned. “It’s so sad. I’m twenty-one next year and I’ve never had sex. I’ve only ever kissed like, two guys. What’s wrong with me?”

“Em, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I’m not going it out of choice!”

“But you said you’re fine being Auntie Em, you know? Single and fun and cool, taking care of yourself.”

“I know, but... it would be nice to feel, you know. Wanted.” She felt herself blush. “I’ve never had an orgasm before. I don’t even know what they’re meant to feel like.”

Did she really just say that? To George Knightley?

Resolutely avoiding his gaze, Emma glared at her drink. No more of you tonight, she thought.

She realised George hadn’t said anything. Emma looked up. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His face was impassive.

“Never?” George’s voice was low. “Not even...” He gestured vaguely towards her, then coughed and looked away, obviously embarrassed. Emma felt herself blush deeper.

“No. I mean, I’ve done... that. But I could never work it out, how to actually... finish. I tried looking things up, and watching, um, videos. But, uh. I haven’t been able to manage it.”

This was excruciating. Emma’s face was on fire. The only sound was the music coming softly from George’s phone and the drip of the tap in the kitchen.

“I, uh...”

She looked up. George was looking at her again, his eyes strangely hooded. She felt her heart pick up.

“If you wanted.” His voice was quiet, slightly raspy. Emma bit her lip. “I mean, I could-“

A loud knock at the door startled them both. George’s drink went flying. Emma sprang up.

“I’ll get-“  
“Shit-“  
“Get the glass! The carpet might stain.”  
“Yes, thank you, I can see that!”

The knocking continued, loud and persistent.

“I’m coming! Jesus Christ.”

They almost collided as George lurched towards the kitchen and Emma scampered towards the door to the flat, avoiding each other’s gaze. Emma felt a pang of satisfaction when she saw the tips of George’s ears were as red as the rest of his face.

She unlocked the door and it swung open to reveal Philip Elton, looming in the corridor.

“Elton?”

He looked up and smiled slightly, running a large hand through his dark brown hair. He wasn’t in his dog collar or the ‘call-me-Philip’ brightly-coloured shirt and jeans he usually wore for the children’s groups. He was clad in a white t-shirt and what looked like plaid pyjama bottoms. Emma blinked. Was she dreaming?

“Hey, Emma.”

“What are you doing here?”

He stepped forward slightly, almost in the doorway to the flat, prompting Emma to move backwards. She could hear no noise from the living room, indicating that George was listening. Elton looked over her shoulder briefly.

“Your sister said you were at George’s. She gave me the flat number.”

“My sister?” Emma furrowed her brow. “What... why were you at my house?”

Elton looked over her shoulder again and spoke directly to George. “Hey, Knightley. Could you give us a minute?”

Emma turned her head around to look at George. He was stood in the middle of the living room, a kitchen towel, damp with the spilled drink, clutched in his hand. Emma nodded at him, almost imperceptibly. He waited a beat, then shrugged and walked into the kitchen. Emma turned back around. Elton seemed even closer than he had been before.

“Why are you here, Elton? Has something happened with Harriet?”

Elton raised his eyebrow quizzically. “Harriet? No, this is nothing to do with her.”

“So, what then?” Emma felt beyond confused, and the vodka fuzzing her brain was not helping.

Elton made a pained expression and laughed slightly, looking away. Then he looked back, opened his mouth and spoke, and Emma suddenly thought the ground could swallow her up right there and then and she would be completely at ease.

“Emma... I’m in love with you.”

The lights were suddenly all too bright and everything was very loud. Emma’s brain short-circuited and, before she could stop herself, she shouted: “Fuck off!”

Elton blinked. “Um.”

“Sorry. God, sorry.” Emma pressed a hand to her forehead; she suddenly felt very, very tired. “Elton, what the hell is going on? Are you drunk?”

It seemed as though the floodgates had opened; Elton moved towards her again, talking very fast with the volume of his voice rising. Emma walked backwards slowly - he was close enough that she could see the bags under his eyes in detail.

“I’m not drunk, I just have to, I have to tell you this! Emma, you can’t honestly tell me that you haven’t noticed it? I’m enamoured with you, you must know that! Everything I do, I’ve been doing for you, to get your attention, ever since I first met you!”

Emma shook her head, panic rising in her chest. Pieces of the puzzle started fitting together, pieces that she had stupidly never noticed: Elton somehow always appearing in the café just after her lunch break; inviting both Emma and Harriet to the morning service; always finding ways to touch her, to brush her arm or stroke her hair. “You’re seeing Harriet! You got me to send you that picture of her.”

“It was a picture of you! You looked so beautiful and elegant, I wanted to keep it.”

Emma shuddered. “No. This isn’t right. You’re mistaken, you like Harriet.”

“Harriet? Harriet!” Elton almost shouted; Emma jumped, and heard a noise from the kitchen behind her. “I barely even think about Harriet Smith, who is she compared to Emma Woodhouse? Look, I think she’s a great girl, she’s cute in her own way, and if I led her to believe that I thought of her as more than that then I’m sorry, but-“

“You slept with her!” Rage suddenly bubbled up from Emma’s stomach, and she practically spat at Elton, advancing on him so he was the one to step back. “You slept with the girl, you took her virginity, less than forty-eight hours ago and told her that you were going to keep seeing each other, feeding her a pack of lies, and, and... God, and now you’re coming round here saying that you’re in love with me?” She shook her head viciously. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Elton held his hands up in the air as if to keep Emma at arm’s length. “Look, she basically threw herself at me! And she was so clingy, she kept asking if we could carry it on. I couldn’t hurt her feelings like that. What was I supposed to do?”

“Say no.” A deep voice came from behind Emma; she started and turned around. George was stood behind her, staring at Elton, looking thoroughly, thoroughly pissed off. “You should have said no, and then you wouldn’t have taken advantage of a naive young girl. I wouldn’t say that’s a very Christian thing to do, is it Elton?”

Elton flushed and narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t any of your business. I’m talking to Emma.”

“I don’t think Emma wants to talk to you anymore.”

For a horrible moment, it looked as if Elton might launch at George and hit him. Then he looked away from him and back at Emma. “Em, I would have never cared for Harriet if she hadn’t been your friend.”

Emma felt her eyes well up with tears. Tears for Harriet, and tears for her own stupidity. “You didn’t care for her, you just fucked her because you were bored and couldn’t get to me.”

His eyes narrowed. “She’s the closest thing I could get to you. It’s not my fault you’re both obliviously stupid and frigid.”

The next thing Emma knew, George had marched forward and was firmly pushing Elton backwards, a hand planted in the middle of his chest, his voice cool and measured.

“Get out of my flat.”

“Emma-“

“If you come back, you’ll regret it.”

Emma watched Elton stumble backwards, alternating between trying to catch her eye and glaring at George. Finally, the door slammed and he was gone.

The flat was silent. George’s head was hanging down slightly, his back to Emma.

She couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

The second Emma let out the first sob, George turned around and moved towards her, wrapping his arms around her. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, rocking her gently as she cried into his chest.

“Shhh.” His soothing whispers resonated in Emma’s skull. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise chapter update!! 
> 
> i think we can all agree that elton is a bit of a cock in the original canon anyway but i decided to make him worse by deliberately leading poor harriet on - what a bastard 
> 
> take care everyone and hope you’re all enjoying!


	8. Chapter 8

It was only after John, Isabella and the kids left Highbury, and Emma went back to sleeping in her own bed at home, that George truly realised just how nice it had been to have her around.

It wasn’t even like he could say they were flat mates for a short while - all that would happen was that Emma would go to work, go home, spend time with her family, and then walk over to the flat and sleep over. That, or George would accompany her to the cottage and they’d go back to the flat together. Or, like that one terrible night, Emma would have a day off work where she spent hours stewing in her own unhappiness, drank too much vodka and had a shouting match with a one Philip Elton.

George couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so angry. The whole thing with Harriet and Elton had left a bad taste in his mouth from the beginning; for one thing, Harriet was eighteen years old, and a very naive eighteen at that, whereas Elton was twenty-three. He had mentioned this to Emma, who had brushed it off and told him to stop being silly, because it wasn’t like Harriet was underage. But still he had been worried. Emma seemed determined to ignore the fact that Elton was actually not a very nice person, despite the image that he portrayed of himself as a generous Christian, and that he and Harriet had very little in common. She also seemed dead set on being prejudiced against Robert Martin, which George had stopped trying to argue with her about because she was so bloody stubborn.

George still thought that Emma had set them up just to prove that she could, and because she liked having a friend who did everything she said.

But all of that frustration at Emma temporarily went out of the window when Elton had barged into the flat, shouting out his love for her and coming far to close to her for George’s liking. He could see at first how uncomfortable Emma was, then how angry, and finally just how upset. Whilst deep down George was almost glad that it had happened, as it was the wake-up call that Emma needed to stop meddling in affairs that were not her own, he never wanted to see her that distraught again in her life. So, all he could do was hold her until she stopped crying.

She had gone to the bathroom to clean up her face whilst he made up the pullout bed for her. But, when she had been far too long, he timidly knocked on the bathroom door to no reply. He could see that his bedroom door was ajar, and on his bed lay Emma, fast asleep and curled in on herself. Her face was red and blotchy and free of makeup, and her eyelids were flickering. He turned off the light and went to bed on the pullout, hoping that she was having sweet dreams.

He had also been hoping that she wouldn’t remember the conversation just before Elton banged his fist on the door.

As George had lain on the bed, he had turned things over in his mind. What had he been thinking? Bringing up the topic of relationships to deliberately make Emma talk about what she wanted, almost offering to give her an orgasm? He groaned and shut his eyes. How stupid - hello, childhood best friend who’s slightly inebriated and also the sister of my brother’s wife, and who argues with me on an almost daily basic, I heard that you’re still a virgin and you’ve never had a boyfriend, would you like an orgasm on the house?

And George knew he also had to stop his mind wandering to inappropriate places when he saw her. Sure, Emma had always been pretty, he wasn’t blind. She had the most beautiful skin and those high cheekbones that she always rubbed when she was stressed out. And those eyes, those almond-shaped eyes that changed colour in certain lights. But it was only fairly recently, in the last eighteen months or so, that George found himself... thinking about her. Wanting to do things with her, to her. Even when she was annoyed at him and he was irritated with her, he found himself thinking about the crease she always got between her perfect eyes when she shouted. She flush in her cheeks when he told her off. He missed her. God, it had only been a few days. George had really, truly missed her when he was travelling, simply because they stopped speaking as much. George remembered the look of masked disappointment on her face when he told her he was backpacking for a year, before she started listing off what he needed to pack and how to pack it. And the travelling had been amazing - he found odd jobs wherever he went, worked on his Spanish and Portuguese, met some amazing people. Returning to the village had been strange, and seeing Emma still there had been even stranger. And then he had started this fucking Masters, and now here he was.

Emma worried him because there was a genuine and very strong possibility that she would stay in the village forever and never experience anything. She was already too comfortable as it was. But George knew in his heart that she would never, ever want to leave her father.

Emma knew everybody and everybody that she knew loved her, and George knew she liked it that way.

Well. He was sure she would rather that certain people didn’t love her quite so much.

Lying in bed on that horrible night, George had cringed to himself when he remembered how his mind sort of blacked out for a second when he got home with the pizza - she hadn’t even done anything special with her hair or makeup, and she had been wearing a simple pair of jeans and a long-sleeved top. But, for some reason, he had never seen her look more beautiful.

Anyway, now she was back at home in the evenings and the flat was empty again.

That night, with Elton, had been a few days ago. George knew that Emma had been to work since then, had seen Harriet. But she hadn’t told her, he knew that much. The morning after, when he had woken up with a dry mouth and a slight headache, Emma was already sat in the kitchen with a coffee.

“I can’t tell her.” Her whisper had been hoarse. She gave no sign that she remembered George’s ridiculous offer.

“You have to.”

“It’ll break her heart.”

“If she doesn’t find out from you, she’ll go on believing that he loves her.”

“This is my fault.”

She couldn’t have been more right. George didn’t have it in him to say he told her so, not on that morning.

*

Saturday. No lectures. George had been up early to go to one of his gardening gigs, a new one now that all of Mrs. Goddard’s weeds were gone and her flower beds were tidy again. He had been paid a pretty penny for that. All the old ladies in the village wanted him to mow their lawns, ask about their cats, have a glass of lemonade and they would pay him a small fortune to do it. The new garden George had to work on was about twice the size of old Goddard’s, and it took him five hours that morning just to get the whole scope of it and work out what needed to be done.

Back at his flat, dirty and sweaty, George stripped off as soon as he got through the door. He ran a hot bath and sank in, his aching muscles grateful for the heat. He shut his eyes.

Emma hadn’t texted him, which meant she probably hadn’t told Harriet. In any other circumstance, he would have called her a coward to her face, and she would have called him an annoying prick, and he would have shaken his head and she would have rolled her eyes and that would be that. Except, this wasn’t like any other circumstance. Emma would probably cry if he called her a coward, and he didn’t want that. Not again.

It wasn’t even like he thought about Emma when he was with other girls. Not much, anyway. Often, she would find some sort of way to call him at an extremely inappropriate time, like she could tell that his head was between someone’s legs and she wanted to ruin the moment. In fact, that exact situation had occurred before. His phone had buzzed so many times and in such quick succession that George had rang her without even reading the texts, assuming there was some sort of emergency.

She had wanted to know what she should get his mother for her birthday.

Irritated, George had shouted something about necklaces down the phone and gruffly apologised to the girl in his bed. Who was she? He racked his brains. Someone he met in the first term of university and never spoke to again, most likely. In any case, Emma hadn’t spoken to him for three days as punishment for his tone of voice. Didn’t reply to any texts or calls. She had given up eventually, simply because she was too nosy to not hear about his university stories.

He smiled and sank deeper into the warm water. It always made him laugh when she tried to punish him, because she could never last. As strong-willed as Emma Woodhouse was, she could never bear the thought of missing out on any opportunity to join a conversation, especially if it was one that didn’t concern her. When George had argued with her about setting Taylor and Wes up, before the plan had actually worked, Emma had flounced off to sit and sulk in the living room, pointedly ignoring him. Then, at dinner, George had simply mentioned some inane gossip he had heard in town to Mr. Woodhouse (who barely acknowledged it) and Emma was all ears, leaning forward to hear about these people she didn’t even know.

Some of their arguments were silly, like one from a few years ago when Emma had been on her period and George had “shut a cupboard door too loudly”, prompting Emma to throw a book at him. Some of them were repetitive; George found himself using the same argument about Emma meddling in other people’s business over and over again. And some of them were downright horrible.

The one about Jane Fairfax had been particularly unpleasant, and it hadn’t even been an argument as such. It had been Emma shouting at him before storming off to bed, and George leaving without saying goodbye.

_“Just because I haven’t had sex, Knightley, doesn’t mean I’m a complete prude. Yes, twenty is quite old to still be a virgin. So what? At least I’m not going around shagging Jane bloody Fairfax in everyone’s face!”_

George still didn’t understand why Emma had been so upset about that, or why she hated Jane so much anyway. After all, she had met her, what, twice? The ever-zealous Miss Bates had introduced Jane to George and Emma just before university started, knowing that both Jane and George would be going to the same place. George, just eighteen then, had developed an immediate crush on her, whilst Emma, who had been only fourteen, was wary and frankly quite rude. The second time the two girls had met was when George and Jane came back to the village during the summer of third year, when they had decided to stop sleeping together and just be friends - which, surprisingly enough, had caused no problems with their friendship. George liked Jane, liked her a lot, but there were no real romantic feelings there (his initial crush had faded almost as soon as it arrived), and they were both so frank with their feelings that communication had never been a problem. They just had fun together.

In Highbury, George had gone with Jane to Hartfield Café (where Emma had just started working); Emma had made Jane a latte, being seemingly cordial and friendly, like butter wouldn’t melt. But George could see what Jane couldn’t - a raised eyebrow here, a scowl there. Over the course of the hour or so that they spent at the café, Jane unintentionally embarrassed and enraged Emma by undermining everything from her coffee-making skills to her education, until Emma was red in the face. But Jane, sweet Jane, hasn’t meant any of it, and George eventually grew so irritated with Emma’s inane sulking and passive aggressive-quips that he could stand it no longer and made up an excuse for them both to leave.

All he could do was raise his eyebrows when, on the train back to university, Jane said “Emma seems nice”.

He still hadn’t told Emma anything about the meal with Jane, his mother and Miss Bates. It had been a relatively pain-free experience, with only a few non-subtle pressures from Bates for the two to become a couple. When Mrs. Knightley and Miss Bates were suitably sloshed and distracted, George had quietly asked Jane if she was seeing anyone, purely out of interest. She had blushed and looked away, not giving him a proper answer.

What he also hadn’t told Emma was that when Jane left the table to use the ladies’ room, George saw her phone, left face up on the tablecloth, light up. A text from ‘Frank’.

Whilst George didn’t know for certain that this ‘Frank’ was Frank Churchill, he was pretty sure. And he hadn’t told Emma yet.

He opened his eyes and shivered. The water had gone cold.

Was that quite as bad as Emma not telling Harriet what she knew about Elton?

Surely not.

George hauled himself out of the bath and walked, naked, through to his room where he lay down on the bed. With no Emma around in the mornings and evenings now, he could go back to walking around nude, like an idiot. He looked around his room.

The flat was so oppressive. In the very back of his mind, George was slightly plagued with the insane thought that he bought an entire flat in the village where he grew up just in case he decided to stay. and he didn’t want to live with his mum. He wouldn’t stay, he couldn’t. But it was better to have a safety net. Just in case anything fell through and he stayed. For a while.

His phone rang: Harriet.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Hi, George!” George strained his ears to hear any hint of sadness or anger on her end of the line, but all he could hear was her normal, bubbly voice. Emma hadn’t told her. “I know it’s last minute but do you think you could pick up a shift today?”

“When?”

“Um...” A muffled voice behind her. “Come in about three?”

George looked at the clock on his wall. It was one. He shut his eyes briefly - there was nothing better to do. “Yes, fine. See you in a bit.”

“Oh, thanks! Bye!”

He chucked his phone down onto the bed and threw an arm over his eyes. Saturdays could never be relaxing.

*

The sky was overcast and threatening rain by the time George made it into the shop; it was fairly busy, with most tables occupied. He said a quick hello to Mrs. Goddard, sat with her usual carrot cake and cappuccino, before seeing Harriet behind the counter, waving rapidly.

“Thanks for coming in, George, I really appreciate it. I’m off soon, I was meant to be working until closing time but I just have so much packing to do for uni, and I need to visit my aunt this afternoon before I go, and-“

“It’s fine.” George cut her off. Sometimes he wondered if Harriet came with an ‘off’ button. Then he felt very mean, and smiled at her. “Are you... okay?” He had to be delicate.

“Yes!” Harriet didn’t seem to pick up on his tone, and grinned at him. “Are you?”

“Hah, fine thanks. How, um, how’s it going with Elton?”

“Oh, fine.” Harriet’s voice grew slightly quieter, and she began fiddling with the till. “Yeah, it’s fine. He hasn’t texted me back since yesterday morning. But, you know. He’s probably quite busy, isn’t he?”

George felt stricken. He shouldn’t have asked. Awkwardly, he reached out and patted Harriet on the arm. “Yes. I’m sure he’s quite busy.” Desperately, he looked around the café. “Where’s Emma?”

Like a switch had been flicked, Harriet’s eyes brightened and she smiled knowingly. “Oh she’s... she’s in the back office having her lunch.” There was something in Harriet’s grin and the cock of her eyebrows that made George think that something was up.

“Okay... is she doing anything in the back office that I should know about?”

Harriet giggled. “Not that I know of. Just go and say hi.”

That was certainly odd. George raised his eyebrows and walked off, leaving Harriet to greet a new customer. On his travels he ran into Robert who was standing over the pot wash, with that perpetual frowning look he wore.

“Hey, Rob. Alright?”

Robert looked up and smiled shyly. Bless him. “Knightley. I’m good, and you?”

They exchanged pleasantries for a bit; Robert said that his band had a gig soon, and that George should come along. Admittedly, George wasn’t a fan of all that shouty music, but he wanted to support his friend. Damn Emma - if only she would take her head out of her arse and realise that Robert was a nice guy.

Greeting some of the kitchen staff as he went, George strode through and eventually made it into the office, suddenly desperate to know what Emma was up to that had made Harriet so shifty and giggly.

He turned the sharp corner into the office and found two people already in there: Emma was sat on the edge of the big wooden table, her legs crossed over the edge. She was laughing about something, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger. A man was sat in the chair just below her, his back to entrance. George stopped in the doorway, and Emma suddenly looked up.

“George!” She jumped off the desk. George noticed how pink her cheeks were. “Um, hi. I didn’t know-“

“Harriet rang me to see if I could pick up a shift.” George spoke without looking at Emma, his eyes trained on the back of the stranger’s head, who hadn’t stood up. He nodded towards him. “New employee?”

“No. No, it’s-“

She broke off as the man stood up and turned around. Of course. George should have known - Emma wouldn’t act that silly and flirty with anyone else.

“Frank.”  
“George.”

Frank Churchill stood with his hands planted on his hips, flicking his stupid curly hair out of his forehead. George’s eyes briefly flicked over to Emma, who looked worried, and he noticed how much smaller she was than Frank; she hardly reached his shoulder. Now, George wasn’t insecure in his height or his appearance - he was fairly tall, and new that he had some physical assets going for him - but Frank was a good few inches taller than him, and had a model’s smoulder that seemed to drive girls crazy.

Or one girl at the very least.

After a very brief and unplanned staring contest, Frank broke the tension by offering his hand. Emma seemed to deflate with relief. George shook his hand shortly.

“How are you, Knightley? Emma tells me you’ve been away.”

“I got back quite a while ago.”

“And what are you doing with yourself now?”

“George is doing a Masters degree,” Emma blurted out quickly. She always spoke fast when she was nervous. “And-“

“I’m just hanging around in the village until I finish, doing some odd jobs until I can leave.” George cut her off, still staring at Frank. “In fact, I’m meant to be on shift now, so if you wouldn’t mind-“

He made a vague gesture to get past Frank to get his apron. Frank threw his hands up and moved out of the way; George heard him huff out a short laugh. “Well, I should be off anyway. Things to do, people to see and all that.” As George watched, he saw him drop Emma a wink. To his disgust, Emma simpered and blushed.

“Anyway, Em, don’t forget - tonight at mine, eight o’clock. Bring your strongest vodka and your shortest skirt, eh?”

“What’s tonight?” George asked before he could stop himself.

“Party at Frank’s house and then we’re all going out, the old college lot. And Harriet.” Emma replied. “George can come too, can’t he?”

George felt himself blush. “You don’t need to ask for me, Emma. I’m almost twenty-five, I don’t need to go to a house party.”

“Hey, man.” Frank smirked. “There’s no age limit on having a good time. Right, Em?”

Emma blushed. George tried hard not to roll his eyes, before looking down at her again.

“And will Elton be there? With Harriet?”

Emma glared up at him. He could tell she was tempted to shout at him or smack his arm. “Um. I’m not sure-“

“I dropped Elton a message,” Frank said. He didn’t seem to notice the tension between the other two, too busy checking his hair in the mirror. “He said he’d come along. I’ve got a free house now, thank God, with the ‘rents away.”

George raised his brows. “And how is your aunt, Frank?”

Frank turned around, his smile gone. “I’m actually very cut up about everything, mate, so I’d rather not talk about it.”

“I’m sure this party will take your mind off it, then.”

A beat. Frank narrowed his eyes, then smiled but without any friendliness. “That’s exactly it, Knightley. We all cope in different ways, right?”

“Of course.”

“I’m off.” Frank nodded curtly at George and pulled Emma into a hug. He had stooped down so George could see Emma’s eyes over his shoulder. She was staring straight at him. “See you later, Em. And George - you’re welcome to come if you decide we’re cool enough, yeah?”

With one last wink at Emma, Frank left. George could hear him walking through the kitchen, laughing loudly with one of the porters, and gritted his teeth.

He turned around. Emma had moved away from the table and was checking her hair in the mirror, resolutely not looking at him.

“Emma-“

“Don’t. Just don’t. I know you don’t like him. I don’t care.” She turned around. “Shouldn’t you be on shift, anyway?”

“Shouldn’t you be working with Harriet instead of embarrassing yourself in front of that cock?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Embarrassing myself? How the hell was I doing that?”

“Batting your eyelids, giggling at everything he said. You might as well have just proposed right there and then.” George knew he sounded bitter and cruel, but something about Frank just pissed him off, and seeing Emma acting so dim in front of him had made him want to punch something.

“Oh, fuck off George.” Emma sounded more fed-up than anything. “You’re not my dad, why should you care about who I talk to?”

“I could say the exact same thing about you, remember Jane Fairfax? How you hate her for no apparent reason? Or is it just because you’re jealous of her?”

“You’re one to talk about jealousy, George, when you practically turned green every time Frank spoke.” She rolled her eyes. “And anyway, Jane’s coming to the party tonight. Wes invited her for some reason, so I’m going to be nice to her, like I always am.”

“I don’t think ‘nice’ is the right word for it.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Will you get off my back, for once? You can’t just barge in here and tell me that you don’t like Frank and expect me to stay away from him just because of that.” To punctuate the end of her sentence, Emma turned on her heel and walked out into the corridor. George huffed and followed her.

“I didn’t say that!”

“No, but you implied it strongly enough, didn’t you?” They were in the kitchen now, and definitely getting in the way of all the porters.

“And have you spoken to Harriet yet?”

Emma turned around, her eyes blazing. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Oh, nothing, only the fact that you deliberately set a naive young girl up with a complete arsehole, which I warned you against, but you ignored me, because as usual Emma Woodhouse knows best, and this aforementioned arsehole slept with her and then confessed his love to you, her supposed best friend. Maybe that’s got something to do with, oh I don’t know, a little thing called a conscience? A moral compass, perhaps?”

Emma’s mouth was open slightly; she looked up at him, stunned, but for once seemed lost for words. George should have stopped there, he knew it, but the words came pouring out before he could censor himself.

“I stuck by you on that night, I made sure you were okay and I held you whilst you cried, but now I’m thinking that I should have marched you around to Harriet’s house there and then. You’ve created this problem, but instead of fixing it like a decent human being, you’re continuing to be selfish and lazy by avoiding everything, letting that poor girl think that the man who took her virginity really loves her.”

He suddenly realised the kitchen had gone very, very quiet. George looked up and saw Robert Martin, carrying a big crate of cutlery, stood behind Emma. He was chewing his lip and his eyes were downcast. George couldn’t say anything to him, so he looked away.

Emma was also looking away, staring down at her feet. For a horrible moment, George thought she might cry again. Then, she straightened up and pushed past him, marching out of the kitchen doors into the café. She didn’t even look at him.

George gave one last helpless shrug to Robert and followed her out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe surprise, george p.o.v 
> 
> i love chapter 41 in the original novel when the perspective shifts to george’s, and i wanted to do the same, so i hope you enjoyed all of the angsty and slightly horny introspection and some antler-bashing between george and frank


	9. Chapter 9

“He’s such a... such a...”  
Harriet stopped, her fists in the air as she struggled to find the right profanity.

“Go on,” said Emma encouragingly. “You can say what you want.”

“He’s such a dick!”

And with that, Harriet buried her face into a cushion and gave a muffled scream. Emma raised her eyebrows; ‘dick’ was slightly too tame a word to describe Elton, she thought, but that was probably the most she would get from Harriet at this point. She rubbed her friend’s back and shut her eyes. She had a headache building.

After George had finished berating her in the kitchen, Emma had marched out into the café and told Harriet that she was coming to Frank’s pre-drinks whether she liked it or not. A slightly shocked Harriet had listened as Emma, with the air of a drill sergeant, said that they would finish up in the café, go straight to Emma’s house, spend a few hours getting ready, then walk to Frank’s house and get paralytically drunk. Harriet had nodded excitedly and hugged Emma, saying how excited she was. Emma had caught George’s eye over Harriet’s shoulder, then looked away hurriedly. They had hardly spoken for the rest of the shift, only to pass on orders.

Harriet had happily babbled away during the walk back to Emma’s, whilst her companion listened miserably and thought about how to tell her about Elton. After a drink each in Emma’s bedroom, she finally plucked up the courage to tell Harriet what had happened just days before. Heartbreakingly, Harriet hadn’t spoken whilst Emma talked louder and faster with each word; her eyes had widened and then filled up with unshed tears as her lower lip trembled. When Emma finally came to a stop, feeling like she could punch a wall, Harriet sobbed. And, bless the girl, she hadn’t blamed her friend; Emma had given Harriet full permission to hate her, to be as angry as anything and storm out if she wanted. But Harriet had given a watery smile and said it wasn’t Emma’s fault. In response, Emma had thrown her arms around her friend and held her until all of her tears were gone. Since then, she had moved from grief to disbelief to anger. Emma just felt angry. Very, very angry.

Harriet sat up, messily wiping her eyes and smearing mascara up onto her forehead. Her skin was blotchy and her nose was running, so Emma wordlessly passed her a tissue. Harriet blew her nose noisily.

Emma knew that it was her job to be the logical, organised one, so she forced a smile onto her face and grasped Harriet’s hand between her own. “Right. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to do your makeup, and you can borrow an outfit off me, and we’re going to Frank’s party.”

Harriet sniffed. “I don’t really know if I’m in the mood, Em...”

“No! No, Harriet, come on, it’ll be great!” Emma grinned as she spoke, trying to excite her friend. Admittedly, Emma knew that she should probably stay at home with Harriet, eating ice cream and watching crappy rom-coms until she felt better. But the selfish part of her wanted to go out, get drunk... and see Frank.

Like an annoying angel on her shoulder, Emma could practically see George shaking his head at her. Crossly, she banished him from her mind. He was not to be thought about tonight, not at all.

Emma passed another tissue to Harriet, who had started sniffling again. “Looking absolutely shaggable and dancing with a load of guys is a sure way to make Elton jealous.”

“And will that make him come back?”

God, Emma could seriously hit Elton. Harriet’s lower lip was wobbling. “No, the thing is, we don’t want him to come back.”

She sniffed again. “We don’t?”

“No. We’ll make a fashionably late entrance so everyone notices how good you look. Then, we want Elton to be super jealous of all the fun you’re having without him, and annoyed that you’re not thinking about him. That way, he’ll have a shit night, like he deserves, and hopefully regret the way he’s treated you. And you can have a great time just living your best life, okay?”

Harriet still looked confused for a moment, but eventually gave a weak smile. “Okay.”

“Great.” Emma smiled and squeezed her friend’s hand. “Right, go and sit at my desk and I’ll do your makeup. You’re going to look like a different person tonight.”

*

It was a short walk to Frank’s parents’ house, but was made longer by Harriet wobbling along in her heels, once again borrowed from Emma. Emma had secretly had a lot of fun making Harriet over; she straightened her curly hair, gave her wide eyes some dramatic wings and dressed her in a short white dress that made her tanned skin glow. She looked wonderful, despite being unable to walk properly, and Emma deliberately kept reminding her of this as they walked.

“You look lovely too!” Harriet beamed up at Emma. She seemed much perkier since they had got ready and had a couple more drinks, which Emma was relieved about.

“Oh, stop it.” Emma smiled, patting down her hair. She had to admit, she had done a pretty good job on herself. Her blonde hair was fashionably twisted up on top of her head, and the black dress she had chosen was the perfect balance of classy and sexy. She hoped Frank would like it.

Walking up the street towards Frank’s house, Emma felt Harriet tense up beside her. She grabbed her friend’s hand, and Harriet squeezed it gratefully. Frank’s house was quaint and beautiful, just like most of the houses in the village, but it was certainly at the larger end of things. Everybody knew that Frank’s parents were rich, and it showed. The front garden was immaculate and, after they pushed the open front door and entered, they could see the obvious rigour that went into the cleaning and upkeep of the house reflected in the spotless surfaces and precisely placed ornaments.

Emma took Harriet’s jacket and hung it up carefully with her own on the coatrack, looking at some of the photos hung up above the stairs. One that caught her eye was an all-white portrait, evidently taken in a studio, of a slightly younger Frank and his parents, grinning at the camera like they were in an advert. Emma had to grapple with herself not to laugh.

“Girls!” A loud voice suddenly sounded out in the hallway; Emma turned to see Frank striding out of the kitchen, a beer in his hand. “I thought I heard someone arrive.” He grinned and hugged Harriet. “Look at you, little lady! Aren’t you a peach.”

Harriet giggled and tucked her hair behind her ear, but Frank had already moved onto Emma. “God, Woodhouse, you scrub up nice.”

“Could say the same to you.”

Frank pulled her in for a hug, then unexpectedly twirled her around. Emma thanked her lucky stars she was able to keep her footing.

“Well, I’m not just going to let two beautiful ladies stand alone in my hallway, although it would be nice to keep you both to myself.” He winked, and Emma felt herself blush like a teenager. “Come on, come through. Everyone’s here.”

He directed the pair into the kitchen, walking behind them - Emma made sure to give her walk a little extra wiggle than usual.

“Emma!”  
“Darling, you came!”  
“You look fantastic.”

The usual volley of compliments made their way to Emma over the music playing in the background as she greeted the group, kissing them all on the cheek and accepting a drink from Perry. The island in the middle of the ridiculously clean and white kitchen was being used as a bar area, bottles and cans taking up almost the entire surface. Emma sat at a barstool and went to turn to Harriet, but she was already engrossed in a conversation with Dixie. It was the usual crowd, with one noticeable absence that Emma had been psyching herself up to see.

“No Jane?” Emma looked at Frank coolly, deliberately kept her voice light and breezy. “What a shame.”

“No, she’s coming.” Frank said, leaning against the kitchen island. “She’s meeting us at the club.”

“Oh. Right.”

“I think she’s getting a lift with Elton and his new girl.”

There was a small bang. Emma turned her head to see Harriet rubbing her elbow. Her arm seemed to have slipped; she widened her eyes at Emma.

Emma turned back to Frank. “His new girl?”

“Oh, um. Yeah. I think she’s in the Church band. They haven’t been seeing each other that long.”

“How long?”

“A month, maybe?”

Emma shut her eyes briefly. A month. He had been seeing another girl behind Harriet’s back, whilst also being in love with Emma. George’s face reappeared in her mind again before she mentally stamped on his foot and sent him away.

When she turned to Harriet, Emma could see that Wes and Taylor were about to pounce on this new information; one severe look from Emma quelled them. She got up and put her arm around Harriet.

“Hey. Remember what I said?”

Harriet sniffed and didn’t reply.

“We’re going to have a fucking great night. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay!” Frank roared. He slapped Emma on the back enthusiastically, who almost choked on her drink. She tamped down her annoyance, took a deep breath and went to turn up the music.

*

After drinks and then a few more drinks, cabs were called and the group made their way into town at around half eleven. There were only a few real nightclubs in the town near Highbury, the largest of which was Donwell’s, a place that wouldn’t get half as much revenue as it did if it was in a bigger city. The other two clubs were relatively smaller and nicer (at least they were less shabby) but Frank had vetoed any decisions to go anywhere other than Donwell’s. Nevertheless, the lights were bright, the music was loud and the alcohol was cheap, so when Emma, Harriet and the assorted group arrived, there was already a large, noisy queue outside. Emma pulled a very tipsy Harriet out of the taxi, her own balance slightly compromised. As Harriet walked ahead with Dixie towards the queue, Emma felt Frank’s arm drape over her shoulders. She smiled.

“Aren’t you cold?” He nodded towards her bare shoulders. “I thought you had a jacket.”

Emma gasped slightly in faux shock. “Oh, shit. I left it at yours.”

Frank stopped walking, then rolled his eyes, smiling, and shrugged off his jacket. He placed it around Emma’s shoulders, and she felt a little thrill of satisfaction. “Wear that whilst we’re queuing.”

“Aren’t you a sweet-“

“Jane! Here! Look, it’s Jane.”

Emma turned towards where Frank was walking. Stood at the end of the queue was Jane Fairfax, waving at Frank. Emma rolled her eyes, before realising she was stood by herself, and hurried towards her friends. She had to withstand everyone hugging and greeting Jane before giving her a one-armed hug and a sickly-sweet smile. Frank beamed at her.

“I thought you were coming with Elton?”

“I got a taxi, he stayed at the pub with August for one more drink.” Jane carried on talking and laughing as Emma looked down at Harriet, who was still chatting away with Dixie. She frowned. Why wasn’t she acting more bothered about this?

The queue moved slowly, which suggested it would be a packed night. As they waited, Emma trying not to breathe in the cigarette smoke emanating from Frank and Wes, she subtly considered Jane. She wasn’t bad-looking, not at all. In fact, Emma had to admit, she was quite pretty, in a slightly pale, peaky way. Her long hair looked a bit too dark for her skin tone, and her eyes had dark circles that could do with a good concealer, but the pallor quite suited the red dress she was wearing. Her jawline was strong, which made her look slightly too masculine for Emma’s taste, especially coupled with her tall stature. But, on the whole, she wasn’t completely hopeless.

George had certainly seemed to find her attractive enough.

Emma didn’t even know what Jane had done at university - was it art history? - and why exactly she was hanging out with Emma’s group of friends. Jane wasn’t even originally from Highbury, not fully anyway. Sure, she had known Dixie for a while through family, and she obviously seemed to know Frank somehow, but if she were to be hanging out with anyone, surely it should be George?

Emma almost felt sick at that prospect. Anything could happen between those two - they had history together, after all.

“Emma?”

Frank’s voice startled her. “Huh?”

He snorted, and Jane laughed slightly. Emma frowned. “Sorry, in my own world there.”

“I just asked if you knew whether your man Knightley was out tonight?”

“What?” Emma blinked. “George?”

“Yes, George Knightley? God, you’re so not on the ball tonight, how much did you have to drink at mine?” Frank laughed again, nudging Jane. Emma looked at his other hand. It was around Jane’s shoulders.

“Um. No, he’s not. At least, I don’t think he is.” She paused, quietly handing Frank back his jacket. “What do you mean, ‘my man’?”

Frank laughed again and flicked his fag butt away. He was starting to get on Emma’s nerves with all the laughing. “Oh, come on. Everyone knows you and Knightley are, like, soulmates.”

So, perhaps Frank didn’t fancy her after all.

Unexpectedly, Jane spoke. “Are you and George together now, then?”

“Um...”

“You two would be great together!”

“And you would know that, wouldn’t you?” Emma replied quickly, immediately regretting how mean she sounded. Jane shut her mouth and raised her eyebrows. Emma felt herself colour up. Thankfully, before anyone could speak, the queue moved again and they were almost at the front. Emma was able to root around her bag for her ID as a distraction.

When she looked up, Frank and Jane had disappeared into the club. She reached behind her and grabbed Harriet’s hand, smiled sweetly at the bouncer and waltzed inside.

The club was packed, as Emma had expected, the bass from whatever shitty song was playing thumping through her veins. She turned around and leaned into Harriet, shouting in her ear to be heard: “Let’s get a drink!”

“Okay!”

They wrestled their way to the bar through the hoards of people and spent a while trying to get the attention of one of the bartender’s; usually, Emma managed to track down the guy she always flirted with because he gave her quick service, but he didn’t seem to be working, so they had to wait an extra while, much to her disgruntlement.

By half twelve, Emma was well on her way to being sloshed, and Harriet was completely hammered. From where Emma was dancing with Wes and Taylor, she could see Harriet on one of the podiums, sandwiched between Perry and some other guy, grinding on both of them in turn. Emma caught Perry’s eye, who raised his hands as if to say “What am I meant to do?”. She shook her head, shut her eyes and carried on dancing. At least Harriet was having fun.

She was just about to go and buy another drink, and maybe try to wrangle a couple of free shots for her and Dixie, when she felt a pair of hands on her waist. Ready to argue with some misogynistic bloke about how women weren’t pieces of meat to paw at, Emma turned around - and was met with the familiar face of Frank Churchill.

“You look like you’re having fun.” He practically shouted into Emma’s ear. His words were slurring, but Emma decided that he meant the compliment. She moved slightly closer to him.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re usually so uptight, you’ve really let go tonight.”

She frowned as someone jostled her from behind. “How would you know? We’ve barely seen each other since college, you’re never around.”

“Just, you know.” He looked vaguely uncomfortable, trying to dance but looking around awkwardly. “That’s just the, um, impression I got. Look, I’m going out for a fag, do you want one?”

Emma looked down at the packet of cigarettes in Frank’s hand, then back at his face, which was blurry and illuminated by all of the flashing lights. “No, I’m going to the loo, then I’m going to find Harriet.”

She pushed her way through the dancefloor again, decidedly having a much worse time than she was before. In the toilets, Emma looked at herself in the mirror, ignoring the shrieking girls surrounding her borrowing makeup and nicking deodorant. Her mouth was slightly downturned, and her hair had mostly fallen out of its bun. She wanted to go home.

Frank obviously couldn’t give a shit about her, he was just being flirty and brash, like usual. Of course he didn’t fancy her - he had never had much time for her at college, why should he now?

“Hey.”

Emma looked back up into the mirror. Jane Fairfax was stood next to her, washing her hands. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, showing two red spots on her pale cheeks. She grinned at Emma brightly, who returned with a weak smile.

“Having fun? This club isn’t actually too bad, considering how small town is, and the drinks are pretty-“

“Why are you here, Jane?”

Jane stopped, her brow furrowed. There was an awkward pause. “Look, Emma,” her voice was lower than before as she turned away from the mirror and looked straight at Emma. “I know you don’t like me, but I’ve always tried to be nice to you. Can’t you at least try to put some effort in? I’m sick of trying to be your friend and getting nothing back. I’m sorry if you’re upset about mine and George’s history, but-“

“No!” God. Emma felt like she could scream. “This isn’t about George. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to sound rude just then. I just... why are you here tonight? With my group of friends?”

Jane laughed slightly. “Well, not that it’s really any of your business seeing as you hate me so much, if you must know it’s because Frank and I are... seeing each other.”

“Oh.” Of course they were. “How did that come about?”

“Why are you so interested?”

As Jane continued looking at her with suspicion and irritation, Emma suddenly saw herself as Jane must: a rude, spoilt little girl who threw dirty looks around like they were going out of fashion and stuck her nose into everybody’s business. A girl who quite clearly had a crush on a guy far out of her league, and who was trying to belittle his new girlfriend.

“It’s fine. I’m sorry, Jane. You don’t have to tell me.”

“We met on a dating app. We must have both been in the village at the same time because our locations matched up, and obviously I knew who he was already. We just started talking, saw each other a bit in the village and really hit it off.” She paused. “Nobody knows yet. We aren’t really official, but we’re... exclusive.”

“Oh. Oh, right.” Emma looked back into the mirror to try and work out what her face was doing. Did she look too happy? Too sad? She looked pretty... neutral. Did she feel neutral, or would it all come bubbling up later on after a few more shots? “Well, um. That’s great, Jane.”

Jane paused before she spoke again. The bathroom had become slightly less packed, so the atmosphere was quieter. “Thanks, Emma. I hope we can be on good terms.”

“Me too.”

“And, I just wanted to say. I care about George a lot, I think he’s great and we had some really good times together...”

Emma narrowed her eyes. She felt like hitting Jane. Should she hit her? Would that be appropriate?

“...but I never, like, fancied him, you know? We just had some fun for a while, it wasn’t ever anything serious. I don’t think he ever thought of me in that way-“

“No, he didn’t.”

Jane cocked a dark eyebrow up and laughed slightly. “Okay, um. Basically I just wanted to say, I’m not going to step on your toes, okay?”

Step on her toes? Emma went to reply, but suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder pulling her around. It was a girl she knew from sixth form a few years ago, obviously drunk, shrieking a hello. Reluctantly Emma hugged the girl and accepted her offer of a swig from a small flask, shuddering. She looked back and Jane had gone.

Her phone pinged.

 **Harriet:** _Where are u??? in smoking area, ELTON’S HERE. I NEED U!!_

Emma rolled her eyes and left the bathroom, stepping back out into the sweaty throng of people. The music was still terrible and seemed to be even louder than it had been, thumping in her temples and making her head hurt. Someone stepped on her exposed toe as they pushed past; Emma determinedly struggled towards the light of the door to the smoking area, finally arriving covered in other people’s sweat. Nights out were never as fun as they sounded.

“Em!” Harriet barrelled towards her, and, for once, Emma was genuinely grateful for her presence. “Thank God, I can’t find Dixie or Taylor or anyone so I was just stuck with Frank and Elton and this August girl...” With the alcohol evidently making her more confident, Harriet pointed a finger over to where the group were gathered. Emma saw Jane leaning into Frank, his arm around her waist. He was sharing a cigarette with her. Elton was also there, looking thoroughly uncomfortable, next to a girl that Emma didn’t recognise.

“Is that August?”

“Yeah.” Harriet sneered. “She seems like a right bitch.”

August was certainly very pretty, in a sort of avant-garde way. She had a beautiful long neck, curly brown hair and the largest blue eyes Emma had ever seen. Elton didn’t look happy.

“How was it with him?” Emma turned back to her friend, who was leaning against the wall and swaying slightly.

“Um, awkward. I was chatting to Frank when they both came over, I don’t think August knew who I was. She was just droning on about how skanky this club is, how tiny Highbury is, how much better the Church band would be if they made her the soloist, blah blah. Elton didn’t even look at me, even though I tried to be, you know, mature about it. I actually tried to speak to him, just to say hello, but he ignored me.”

Emma suddenly caught Elton’s eye across the smoking area. He locked his gaze onto hers for a second, a look of desperation on his face, before blinking and turning back to August. Emma snorted derisively and took Harriet’s hand. “Come on. You don’t need-“

“George!”

Harriet’s hand slipped from Emma’s, and suddenly a tall figure was stopping down to hug the excitable girl. George looked over Harriet’s shoulder at Emma and smiled slightly. When he straightened up, he nodded at her; Emma felt her heart crumble slightly at the fact he didn’t even try to hug her.

“What are you doing here?” Emma tried to speak with as much malice as possible, but heard the note of desperation in her voice. She cringed at herself.

“Pub and club crawl with some of the uni lot.” Irritatingly, Harriet giggled at this. What was there to giggle at?

“I thought you weren’t coming out tonight.”

“I never said that, I just said I didn’t want to come to the house party.”

“It wasn’t a house party, it was pre-drinks.”

“Frank said house party.”

“Well, it wasn’t.”

“Okay then.”

“Fine.”

Emma looked away, tapping her foot. Harriet spoke, her words loud and slightly slurred. “Hey, George. Guess what?”

“What?” Although Emma wasn’t looking, she could hear a smile in his voice. She rolled her eyes.

“Elton’s here and he’s ignoring me.”

“What a wanker.”

“He is a wanker, isn’t he? Isn’t he, Em?”

“Look, do you want to go?” Emma turned back to Harriet, suddenly feeling like she might cry. She avoided George’s gaze. “I’m really tired, and-“

“No, let’s stay! The café’s closed tomorrow, remember? We don’t have to be up early!”

“I know, but-“

“You’re the one who wanted to come out tonight, Em.”

“Yeah, I know-“

“What’s up?”

George spoke, his voice lower than usual. Emma finally looked at him, her face burning. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong, George.”

There was a loaded silence. George’s eyes bored into Emma’s. Finally, he shrugged. “Fine. Get a taxi.” He looked down at Harriet. “Fancy a dance?”

She grinned. “Yeah!” Infuriatingly, she gave Emma a quick hug. “See you later, Em, text me when you’re home safe!”

Then, as quick as a flash, they disappeared inside, leaving Emma stood in the smoking area.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emma can be such a nightmare sometimes! writing her at the moment is so infuriating bc she’s so obviously unhappy and just takes it out on everyone else 
> 
> also, this just in, frank churchill is officially my new favourite character to write because he’s so over the top and ridiculous 
> 
> more angst coming up! also a special shoutout to all readers who have been desperately awaiting the promised ‘eventual smut’.... you will be rewarded for your patience soon! ;)


	10. Chapter 10

October made its chilly entrance by bestowing upon Emma a perpetually grumpy, unhappy mood. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Harriet was now a few weeks into her first term at university and was only around at the weekends, or the fact that Frank and Jane were now Facebook official, or the fact that she hadn’t seen George in over two weeks, or the fact that she was now practically running the shop and doing a whole lot of overtime during the week because George was bartending in town instead.

Or maybe it was just seasonal depression.

Emma had accompanied Harriet on a short trip into town to look around the university campus again, a week or so before Harriet’s lectures were due to start. Because Harriet was living at home, for the first year at least, she hadn’t had much to pack. It was all very quick, and Harriet seemed completely at ease with the change in her life. Emma knew that if she was the one going to university, commuting or not, she would be terrified.

Since the horrible night out, Emma had noticed a slight change in Harriet. Her demeanour was more confident, more self-assured; even her posture was straighter. Her first weekend back in Highbury had been a nightmare. The café had been essentially empty for most of the week, with only Emma rattling around the shop by herself. Harriet had bounced inside on Saturday morning, a huge grin on her face and her hair in disarray, just “dying to tell you all about my lectures!”. Emma had found it difficult to pretend to be interested, when all she really wanted to do was rearrange the cake counter and wait for a customer to come in.

Maybe Elton had been right. Maybe she had become boring.

Since that first weekend of October, Harriet had calmed down slightly. She still worked in the café on Saturdays and Sundays, but spent a lot of her time behind the counter reading and making notes in her English books, occasionally looking up to tell Emma some new fact about Middle English or critical analysis that Emma didn’t really care about. Except, strangely, in the middle of the month when the wind outside was whistling and beating at the windowpanes, Harriet looked up from her book and furrowed her brow. “Where’s George?”

Emma looked up from her phone, briefly casting an eye over the café to see if anyone needed a dessert menu or a top-up on their coffee. Damn.

“I thought I told you? He’s stopped doing shifts here.”

“Oh.” Harriet shut her book and put it on the floor. “No, you didn’t tell me. Why’s that?”

Emma realised that she would rather stick pins in her eyes than talk about George. It hurt too much. “Um, he’s got a new job in town. Bartending at the King’s Arms. With that and the gardening and his MA, he doesn’t really have time to help out here anymore.”

“Oh.” Harriet sounded disappointed for some reason. Then, her voice suddenly brightened up. “We should do something! Us three. Go for a drink or something. We haven’t all seen each other for a while.”

Emma almost felt like laughing. Since when did they become a ‘we’? Harriet barely knew George; sure, he had looked out for her in the few short months that they had known each other, and he seemed to like her well enough, but were they really friends?

And George was off the radar anyway. For Emma, at least. The most she had seen of him was if he walked past the café, or occasionally dropped off some food shopping for Mr. Woodhouse. He hadn’t been for dinner in a long time. Usually, after an argument, George was the first to apologise. He would say sorry, and this would prompt Emma to do the same and perhaps realise that the argument could have been avoided if she had just done this, or not said that. They would hug and make up and go about their business.

Except... this time was different. There had been so many arguments recently - big ones as well - that the pattern had been broken. The fight they had in the kitchen, the one that practically the whole café had heard, had come to no real conclusion. Emma knew deep down that she should say sorry, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

And she had been determinedly not allowing herself to think about the other kind of tension between them. It wasn’t appropriate, or realistic.

“Shall I text him, then?”

Emma looked up. Harriet was smiling brightly, her phone in her hand.

“What?”

“Shall I text George and see if he’s free tonight?”

“No.” Harriet blinked. Emma realised she may have sounded too harsh, so smiled to soften her words. “I’ll do it. I’ll text him.”

“Okay!”

Sod it, she thought as she pulled up his contact. They couldn’t avoid each other forever.

**To: G**  
_Harriet wants us all to go for a drink tonight. Are you free?_

To Emma’s surprise, George began typing immediately, and she had a response within a few seconds.

 **G:** _Working but come to the King’s Arms and I’ll join you when my shift’s done._

“Did he reply?”

“Harriet. Customer.”

*

As Emma stared down into the drink she didn’t want, she tried to block out Harriet’s inane ramblings. But, as usual, they pierced through. When they had walked into the pub, George had nodded a greeting from behind the bar and signalled that he would be over soon. Emma was glad when Harriet offered to get the first round - she didn’t want to be face to face with George by herself.

“...and this lecturer, Marnie, have I told you about her? She’s amazing, like, oh my God, her tutorials are just my favourite thing ever. So, yeah, she said to me that my ideas about Chaucerian tradition were, like, really well-founded, and...”

Emma knew she was being unfair to Harriet. She loved the girl, she really did. But since when had she become such an annoyance?

“Have you met anyone cute in your classes?” Emma interrupted Harriet. She couldn’t take another conversation about lectures or Chaucer. “Any guys?”

“Oh, um.” Harriet flushed slightly. “There’s a couple of guys, they’re okay. But, um. I actually wanted to tell you. I think I like someone else.”

“Oh?” This was a new development. Emma was pretty sure she knew who it was already. She hadn’t forgotten the why Harriet had simpered and blushed when Frank had complimented her. “Who’s that then?”

“It’s embarrassing-“

“Hey.” They both looked up to see George stood over the table, three pints in his hands. “I got us another round.”

“Thanks!” Harriet grinned and took one of the glasses from George. “Good shift?”

“Not too bad. I’ve got tomorrow off, which is a blessing. It’s very different to working at the café, takes me back to when I was bartending during university.” George still hadn’t looked at Emma. “Speaking of uni, did I hear you talking about your lectures? How’s it all going?”

Oh for God’s sake.

The two of them babbled on about university for a while, with Harriet asking for advice about first year, George discussing the novels and plays that Harriet would be studying. There wasn’t a single part of the conversation that Emma could join in with - she hadn’t read a full book in longer than she cared to mention. She let her mind flit in and out, occasionally listening in to their conversation, but mostly drinking and staying quiet. She looked at George surreptitiously. Even in the three weeks she hadn’t seen him, Emma could pinpoint the slight changes to his appearance. He needed a haircut, it was starting to curl at the nape of his neck. He had obviously shaved that morning, a small cut placed just below his chin. The white shirt he was wearing was slightly creased; he never could iron anything properly, he always missed spots.

The pub had grown slightly busier as Harriet and George had continued talking. More people were walking in, and the door kept opening and closing, blowing cold air onto Emma’s back.

“Did you ever feel a bit stupid in any of your tutorials, when you were a student? Like people knew more than you did?”

There was a group of men stood at the bar who wouldn’t stop shouting. It was making Emma’s skin prickle.

“Well, obviously you’re going to feel inadequate sometimes, it’s a natural human reaction, especially when you’re somewhere new, but I’m sure you’re doing brilliantly...”

Someone had turned the music up on the old-fashioned jukebox, it was far too loud to be comfortable.

“I’m enjoying the lectures, but sometimes I just feel like I don’t know enough, like I say things that are ignorant or stupid-“

Emma placed her drink down on the table with more force than she intended, and began speaking before she could think. “Aren’t you used to saying stupid things, though, seeing as that’s all you seem to do?”

Silence.

Emma felt her heart twist as Harriet shut her mouth and swallowed. Her rosy cheeks had turned an even darker shade of pink. She looked at George quickly, then back at Emma, and then down into her lap.

George hadn’t looked away from Emma. She felt herself blush, and went to speak, but was beaten to it.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

There was a sniffling noise. Harriet was still looking down, averting her eyes from Emma.

“Harriet...”

“It’s fine.” Finally, she looked up. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears, and she smiled unconvincingly. “It’s fine, Emma. We all say things we don’t mean. It’s okay.”

Emma’s face felt numb. Her hands were shaking, so she placed them under the table. “I should go. I’m tired.” She stood up, picked up her bag. Didn’t look at George, though she could feel his eyes on her. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” Harriet looked away. “Bye.”

In an ideal world, Emma would have apologised. She would have taken Harriet’s hand, said a heartfelt sorry and promised that she didn’t mean it. She would never have said it, she would have joined in with the conversation and asked Harriet about more than just boys, asked about her tutorials and seminars, and made up with George.

But it wasn’t an ideal world, and she was a coward. So she got up, pushed through the crowd stood at the bar and left the pub.

It was freezing outside; the sky was a blanket, covering all of the stars, the only light coming from the sliver of moon hanging high above. Emma shivered and pulled out her phone to call an Uber.

“Hey!”

She turned; George was stood outside the pub, his hands jammed into his pockets. Emma laughed humourlessly to herself and looked away - she knew how this would go.

“Just leave it, George.”

“No.” Footsteps behind her, he was walking closer. “You don’t just get to say that shit and leave. Emma? Are you listening to me?”

She spun around. “Yes, I’m listening.”

His hair looked almost silver in the moonlight; Emma would have said that he looked beautiful, except his face was screwed up into an ugly, angry expression. “That was out of order, Emma, so out of fucking order.” George was breathing heavily, and Emma could see his hands flexing inside his trouser pockets. For once, she didn’t try to interrupt him. There was no point.

“Do you know how you’re supposed to treat your friends? With respect. You’re meant to have their best interests at heart, and respect them as people, no matter what. And, for a while, I was kidding myself, thinking that maybe you had changed, maybe Harriet actually meant something to you. But obviously I was wrong. You’re everything that I told myself you weren’t - spoilt, selfish, and self-centred. And, frankly, I don’t care if you think I’m being mean, because I feel like being fucking mean to you right now. You’ve treated Harriet like shit, and still she’s stuck around because she absolutely idolises you. Do you realise how that makes you appear?” He paused. “Well? Do you?”

Emma felt her eyes burning, she willed herself not to cry. “George-“

“You don’t, do you? You resent the fact that she’s starting a new chapter of her life that doesn’t involve you, and you can’t handle it.”

“Stop it, stop it!”

“Why should I stop? Am I lying?”

Still, Emma would let the tears run down her face. She wiped her eyes quickly, frustratedly, and stared up at George. He was stood very near to her - she hadn’t noticed that he had moved towards her.

“Do you have no feelings about this at all?” His voice was quieter, lower. Emma felt her stomach jump.

“I-“

“Or are you just going to run away from this?” He was almost whispering now. “Hm? Like you always do.”

His face hovered above hers, his lips slightly parted. Emma felt the breath catch in her throat, her eyes prickling. She saw his tongue flick out and lick his lips.

Emma shut her eyes, leaned up, and crashed her mouth onto his.

For half a second that felt like a lifetime, George didn’t move, and Emma was kissing stone. Then his body melted into hers and his lips parted even more, devouring her mouth. She felt his right hand hold her jaw, keeping her in place, the pads of his fingers rough against her cheek, and she moaned gutturally from the back of her throat. His body was flush against hers as her arms moved to wrap around his back, fingers digging into his shoulders as she felt his heart beat fast against her chest. He licked into her mouth and she felt her stomach lurch, the place between her legs that had gone unexplored for so long throbbing with a newfound desire. Matching her groans, George made a noise that rumbled deep from his chest as he held her face against his, pressing his tongue into her mouth like he never wanted to stop.

Emma didn’t want it to stop. Ever. She tried to press herself even closer into him, if that was possible, but suddenly felt resistance. Both of his hands grabbed her face and moved it away from his, staring into her eyes with a dark, hooded gaze. Her mouth was burning, her skin was on fire despite the cold air. All Emma wanted to do was grab him and-

“This isn’t...” George’s hands dropped from her face, and he stepped backwards. He looked away, wiped his mouth in a way that was almost sordid. Shut his eyes. Emma’s breath hitched, her eyelids fluttered. He finally looked at her again. “I didn’t want... not like this.”

“What?” She hardly recognised her own voice, it was so low and hoarse. People bustled past, not seeming to realise that a whole universe was crumbling before their eyes.

George shook his head. “That shouldn’t have happened. Not like this, Emma.”

Before she could even think about it, Emma felt her legs moving, and she started walking away. George’s voice shouted behind her.

“Emma!”

She carried on walking, the taste of him still on her lips.

“Let me call you a taxi. You can’t walk home, it’s too late! It’s too far!”

Emma wiped her mouth. Her eyes were dry. She walked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
> 
> angst! sexual tension! help! 
> 
> i decided to include the bit from canon where emma nastily insults miss bates, except i never intended on making miss bates a major character in this fic, so it made sense to me for emma to say it to harriet, who obviously deserves better :(
> 
> hope you’re all enjoying the angsty tension! your feedback and comments are much appreciated xx


	11. Chapter 11

Emma Woodhouse was never impulsive. She was never erratic, reckless or rash. Everything she did was planned, every step she took, she took with care, and every endeavour formulated in her head was meticulously done. Emma liked knowing what was to be ahead of her, how it was going to happen and exactly which roads it would take her down.

So, she wasn’t entirely sure how she had ended up walking almost five miles back to Highbury from town in the middle of the night, without calling a taxi to pick her up. There were many people she could have called – Dixie certainly would have woken up and rushed out of the house to take her home, Perry would have probably still been awake and would have been grateful for a small adventure. Even Elton would have put his pride and ego aside to help. But Emma couldn’t and wouldn’t ring anyone, so she walked until her feet ached and the skin of her bare arms turned mottled blue in the cold.  
Emma encountered nobody on her journey, only a few cars trundling along in the dark. As she finally, finally rounded the corner that led into the main street of Highbury, Emma allowed herself to check her phone. It was almost two in the morning. One missed call apiece from George and Harriet. She slipped her phone back into her bag.

The whole night had been completely ridiculous, Emma thought to herself as she dragged her feet along. None of the events that transpired could have been planned or accounted for, and all of it was her own stupid fault. If she hadn’t stuck her nose into Harriet’s business all those months ago, if she hadn’t let her childish jealousy towards the girl fester and grow, if she hadn’t tried to deny her feeling for George by transferring them to Frank, if she hadn’t looked at his mouth and his clenched fists and leaned up with her eyes shut and – 

Emma reached her front door. Her feet hurt, the muscles in her legs were sore and her head ached horribly. She had work in just over five hours. Those unwelcome thoughts would have to be kept at bay until she’d had some sleep. As quietly as possible, Emma shut the door behind her and crept up the stairs, avoiding all the steps that were wont to make suspicious groans and creaks. The cottage was a part of her, in her bloodstream after two decades of living in its walls, and she knew it inside out.

“Emma?” 

She jumped, turned around. Her father’s bedroom door was slightly ajar, and she could see his shadow, slightly stooped, peering out through the crack. He pushed the door open more, revealing his tired, careworn face that was half in shadow.

“Dad,” Emma whispered hoarsely. “Why are you up? Did I wake you?”

“No, darling. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t sleep well when you’re not home.” He rubbed his tired eyes. “Are you okay? You look upset.” 

“I’m…” Emma stopped. She wasn’t okay, far from it – but did he father need to worry himself about any of it? “I’m fine, Dad.”  
Mr. Woodhouse frowned, the lines etching his face growing deeper. He opened the door wider. “Come in, Emma. Let’s have a chat.”

Wordlessly, Emma followed her father. His room was softly illuminated by the yellowish light of the lamp by his bed, revealing the plain walls and white bedsheets. Emma never spent that much time in his room, only to change the bedclothes and occasionally vacuum, if the mood took her. Mr. Woodhouse patted the bed next to where he was sat, so Emma took a seat next to him. Her eye caught a picture frame placed under the yellow lamp; black and white, it was a candid photograph of a young woman, sat in what looked like a restaurant, with light hair and high cheekbones, smiling widely at the camera, her gaze focused on something just behind the lens. How had she never noticed it before? 

“Mum.” 

“Sorry?” Mr. Woodhouse looked where Emma was pointing and smiled softly. “Ah, yes. Our six-month anniversary, if I’m remembering correctly. She never liked having her picture taken, but finally let me on that day. It’s my favourite one of her.”

There were no pictures of Mrs. Woodhouse around the cottage. Emma couldn’t stop staring at the photo in front of her. “She looks like me.”

“Yes, I suppose she does. You always looked more like your mother. Poor Isabella got my genes.” He chuckled softly.

Emma looked down at her hands. They were blue. “Do I remind you of her? In any way?”

Mr. Woodhouse didn’t reply for a moment; the only sound was the hoot of an owl outside, and the ticking of the alarm clock on the cabinet. “Yes. In many, many ways. You have her pluck, and her… fierceness. Her tenacity. She was adored by everybody she met, and so are you- Emma, dear? Why are you crying?”

The numbness that had been circling Emma since she walked away from George had finally broken, and she suddenly couldn’t stop the tears from cascading down her cheeks. In a broke voice, she spoke, looking away from her father. “I don’t believe you, Dad, I don’t believe that I’m a good person like she was. You’re telling me all this, that I’m adored, and everyone loves me but, but, the truth of it is…” Emma broke off, gasping for breath. “The truth is I don’t know why people should adore me, or even tolerate me anymore. I can’t stand myself, I cant stand what… who I’ve turned into.” 

Sobs racked her body; Mr. Woodhouse tentatively placed on arm around his daughter’s shoulders, and she fell into him, still crying. He kissed the top of her head.  
“Emma, you don’t have to tell me what happened. But I need you to hear this: you have a heart of gold. Just like everybody else, you make mistakes. Only you can put them right. But it breaks my heart when you call my daughter a bad person, because I don’t know anyone better. You can make things right again. Just don’t run away from your problems.”

*

“And is that everything for you, Mrs. Goddard?”

The old lady smiled toothily and took the two wrapped sandwiches from Emma’s hands. “Yes, thank you, dear. I shan’t stop, I picked these up for that lovely George for when he pops round later. He’s building me a shelf, did you know? I told him, I said ‘George, my love, you’ve already done so much for me in my garden, I’m sure I can manage a shelf or two’, but he insisted, now isn’t he a fine young gentleman…”

Emma miserably let the old lady babble on about all the help that George had given her recently and tried not to start crying again. Three hours of sleep did not suit Emma; she had made herself three coffees that morning alone, and still felt like she might keel over.

“…didn’t he work here before?”

Emma looked up. Mrs. Goddard was stood looking at her expectantly, the sandwiches clasped in her hands. She gave her best customer service smile. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Goddard, what was that?”

“I said, didn’t George used to work at the café? Has he stopped now?”

“Ah, yes. He’s got a new job in town.”

“And are you managing, dear? I never see that Miss Bates around, and she’s supposed to own the place.”

Emma could practically feel her eyes start to droop. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Goddard. I’m managing perfectly well.”

Seemingly satisfied, the old lady gave one last smile and hobbled out of the café, waving from outside the window. Emma watched her cross the road and remembered how she and Isabella would be carted over to her cottage, when there was still a Mr. Goddard, to be babysat in the evenings if Mr. and Mrs. Woodhouse had plans. Isabella would help Mrs. Goddard make dinner, feeling very grown-up because she was entrusted with the job of chopping carrots and mincing garlic, whilst Emma, hardly a toddler, would be carried around the garden on Mr. Goddard’s shoulders until she was dribbling from laughter. Then, Mrs. Woodhouse would drop by on the way back from whatever meal or pottery class or book club she had attended with her husband and pick up the girls, always leaving with some sort of fresh vegetable or packet of biscuits from Mrs. Goddard’s kitchen. Emma wondered what it would be like to live somewhere where you didn’t know everybody intimately, where there were fresh faces around every corner.

She checked her phone: almost noon. The day was dragging, as usual.

Harriet hadn’t come in, not by the time the clock struck twelve, not after the lunch shift, not at three o’clock when most of the customers had gone. It was her day off, but she usually came in for a couple of hours just to keep Emma company. She used to sit by the window and keep a watchful eye on the Church, waiting for Elton to come out to grab his usual coffee. When Emma thought about it again, it should have been obvious – he always wanted Emma to make his drink for him so he could lean over the counter and chat to her before Harriet would strong-arm him into sitting with her.

Poor Harriet. Throughout the day, Emma had periodically taken out her phone with the genuine intention of texting Harriet. She didn’t know what she would put – ‘I’m sorry’, or maybe just ‘Hi’ – so, whenever she took it out of her pocket, it took only thirty seconds before she put it away again.

And George. Whatever could she say to George?

Emma’s lips felt like they were burning whenever she thought about him. His fingers pressing into her cheeks, the feel of his shoulders under her shaking hands, his stubble scratching against her chin as he devoured her.

The cuckoo clock on the wall startled her, and Emma pressed a cold hand to her burning cheek. Four o’clock. 

Looking around the tiny café, Emma could only count four customers. Would it really be a travesty if she slipped out the back and ran to the block of flats?

“Emma.”

She looked up – had the bell on the door even made a noise? – and looked straight into the steady gaze of Jane Fairfax.

“Jane.” Emma tried to smile but realised that she couldn’t quite manage it. “How are you?”

“I’m good, thank you.” Emma had to admit to herself, Jane looked very pretty. Her dark hair was loose and fell in waves to her shoulders and her pale skin looked like it was glowing. However, she looked worried. “Are… are you okay? I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look quite tired.”

Emma felt her face heat up in embarrassment. Did she really look that bad? “Oh, um, I didn’t sleep too well last night. I…”

“George is in a bit of a state.”

Emma felt her heart flip over and tried to keep her voice cool. “Oh?”

“I know that you two haven’t been…” Jane seemed to struggle for a moment. “You haven’t been getting on as much. And, before you say anything, I know, it isn’t any of my business. But George has just seemed a bit… not himself.”

Normally, Emma would have jumped on the defensive. Who did Jane think she was, coming into her café and sticking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted? But these weren’t normal circumstances. This time, Emma didn’t see a stuck-up girl who wanted to cause problems, but a timid young woman who genuinely wanted to help out a friend.

But who was Emma Woodhouse if she wasn’t a woman of action? She couldn’t let Jane just stand there and do all the talking.

Jane began to speak again but Emma cut her off. “Jane, are you busy?”

“Um, no not really, I was just watching some telly at home and thought I’d pop in-“

“Are you free for the next two hours?”

“I, um –“

“Do you know how to work a till?”

A small smile. “Yes, I’m not a complete moron.”

“Okay. Okay, great.” With a burst of energy, Emma untied her apron and placed it on the counter, then looked back at Jane determinedly. “If you look after the café until I get back, I will owe you forever.”

“I…” Jane looked down at the apron, then back up at Emma. “Okay.”

“You’re an angel, and you can have all of my tips from today.”

“No, you don’t need –“

“No, you’re getting them, this is the favour of the century. Specials board is behind you, coffee machine instructions are pinned on the wall in the supply cupboard, security code in case of emergencies is in the big red book in the back office, the kitchen lot know what they’re doing, and…” Emma trailed off, really looked at Jane. 

She looked slightly overwhelmed, but determined. Emma smiled. “And thank you, Jane.”

“Don’t mention it.” As she tied on the apron, Jane looked quizzically at Emma. “Where are you going?”  
Emma smiled. “To set things right.”

*

Emma heard him before she saw him. The noise of clashing drums assaulted her ears as she jogged up her own road – but, instead of crossing over to her cottage, she made a right turn into the front garden of the Martin house, stopping to catch her breath. The afternoon was cold, but Emma felt her top stick to her back with sweat as she looked around to pinpoint where the drums were coming from. Cautiously, she tiptoed around the side of the small house, the noise getting louder. The garage door was open, revealing the back of Robert Martin. He was sat facing away from the open door, his strong arms flailing as he attacked the drums with a ferocity that Emma had never seen before. She was sure, to some people, this was fantastic music. It was just that she couldn’t detect a tune.

“Robert!” Emma tried to shout over the noise; he didn’t stop.

“Rob! Robert Martin!” Still, he carried on. “For fuck’s sake.” In desperation, Emma looked around. Before she could think about it too much, she picked up an empty Coke can and launched it at Robert’s head. It hit him on the back of the neck, and he jumped, the drums coming to a halt. He turned around, looking angry, but his features arranged themselves into a look of mere irritation when he saw who was standing in his garage.

“Oh.” He stood up and pulled off the huge headphones that were covering his ears, before grabbing a towel that was draped over his stool and wiping his sweaty forehead. “Hi, Emma.”

“Hi. Sorry, I tried to shout.” Nervously, Emma nodded at his drumkit. “That sounded… nice.”

Robert raised his dark eyebrows. “Didn’t think that was your kind of music, Woodhouse.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Well, maybe not.” She waited; Robert, never the best conversationalist, simply stood there, shuffling his feet. Then:

“What are you-“  
“I just came to-“

Emma blushed, Robert looked away. When she was certain that she could speak first, she took a timid step forward. “Rob, I… I’ve been horrible to you. I came round to apologise. So, um.” Emma took a deep breath. Robert simply crossed his arms and continued looking levelly at her. “I’m sorry. You’ve never done anything bad to me, and I’m sorry for treating you as if you had.”

She looked down as she finished, waiting for Robert to speak. The silence was deafening for too long, and Emma was about to open her mouth again out of nervousness, before Robert cut across.

“My band have a gig in town tomorrow night. It’d be nice if you came.”

Emma looked up. Robert was smiling slightly, one corner of his mouth quirked upwards.

“I’ll be there.” 

After a slightly awkward goodbye, Emma took off again. She was pretty sure hadn’t done this much running since Physical Education at high school – the only subject she hadn’t excelled in. Trying to keep her breathing measured, Emma jogged past the café, waving a quick hello to the blur that was Jane stood behind the counter. Through the grace of God, a miracle or maybe just luck, there was one bus left going into town. She jumped on and sat down, panting. Fifteen minutes to work out what she was going to say.

*

“Emma, dear! How lovely to see you.”

Harriet’s mother was a short, plump woman with the same dark curls as her daughter and a grin that made her look a lot younger than she was. Her face was etched with smile lines, and she perpetually kept a pair of red glasses stuck in her frizzy hair that Emma had never seen her wear. Emma had taken a deep breath before knocking on the bright green front door of the Smith house, preparing herself for the infectious and slightly irritating happiness that constantly emanated from the Smith household.

“Hi, Helena.” Emma continued talking as she was ushered in, the familiar smell of gingerbread hitting her. “Sorry I dropped in without any warning, I-“

“Oh, don’t be silly, love!” Helena practically pulled Emma through to the kitchen and sat her down in a chair. “I’ve just made gingerbread men for Harriet’s little cousins when we see them tomorrow, but I’m sure they won’t mind if we’re a bit naughty and have a few for ourselves, will they?” She shoved a biscuit into Emma’s hand and began bustling about with the kettle. Emma felt slightly exhausted already; she had only met Harriet’s mum a handful of times, when she popped into the village to visit the café, but (much like Harriet) she was one of those relentlessly friendly people who treated anyone and everyone like they were lifelong pals.  
“Gosh, sorry my love, you’re here to see Harriet, aren’t you?” Helena trilled, grabbing an extra mug out of the cupboard. “I’ll make her a hot drink as well, is tea okay, dear? Hang on, I’ll call her down, oh but doesn’t your hair just look lovely, Emma!” Emma felt like she had mental whiplash with all the stopping and starting of sentences; before she could speak, Helena had shouted up the stairs for Harriet, and Emma was stuck.

“She’s been working so hard on her assignments and essays you know, and it must be difficult for her what with commuting and everything, makes it so much harder to meet new people, don’t you think?”

“Yes-“

“Are you still thinking of going off to university, dear?”

Emma swallowed. “Um. Perhaps. But, you know, I’ve got my job in the café and my dad-“

“Oh, well, aren’t you a sweetheart, looking after your old – Harriet! Emma’s here, darling.”

Emma’s stomach lurched as she looked up; Harriet was stood in the doorway, her curly hair shoved up into a bun on top of her head, a pair of large glasses that Emma hadn’t seen before balanced on her nose. Her wide mouth was set in a straight line. Emma hardly heard Helena’s continual babbling, until Harriet gently cut her off.

“Mum? Do you mind if I have a chat with Emma? I’ll finish the tea.”

Helena looked at both girls with something like understanding, before leaving the kitchen, shutting the door gently behind her.

They were alone in the kitchen, Emma sat awkwardly at the table, Harriet stood away from her next to the door. “Tea?” She asked lightly, surprising Emma.

“Um…”

Harriet didn’t wait for a reply, but poured water out of the already boiled kettle and poured it over the teabags in the separate mugs, her back to Emma. Emma’s throat was tight.

“Harriet… I’m so, so sorry about last night.”  
“I already said it was okay.”  
“Its not okay, none of what I said is okay.” Emma took a deep breath. “And this isn’t just about last night.”

Still, Harriet didn’t turn around, busy finding milk and sugar. Emma felt her face heat up as she talked quicker, unable to stop the words from pouring out. “I’ve realised… someone made me realise that I’ve been selfish and self-centred and all of the horrible things that you can think of. And for that, I’m really, really sorry. You mean so much to me, Harriet, you really do.”

Harriet put the milk back in the fridge. Emma could hear the spoon clinking as she stirred the tea in each mug. She tried another tactic, desperate for her friend to at least turn around. 

“I need to tell you something.” She paused. “Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax, they’re a couple now. They’re official, I thought I should let you know.”

The spoon clinked as Harriet placed it on the counter and turned around, a look of mild incredulity on her face. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Emma blinked. “But, I thought… I thought you liked Frank?”

Despite herself, Harriet giggled slightly. “Frank? Never, I would never fancy Frank.”

“You said there was someone else.” A sinking feeling was slowly settling in Emma’s stomach as the truth began to dawn on her, before Harriet could even say the words.

Harriet didn’t speak, only bit her lip.

“Harriet,” Emma deliberately tried to keep her voice measured, but heard a clear note of anxiety. “Were you talking about George?”

“Well, um…” Suddenly unsure of herself, a far cry from the cool, standoffish girl who had walked into the kitchen, Harriet shuffled her feet and twisted her hands together. “Yes. I like George.”

Emma couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. She watched Harriet struggle for words, until she turned around again, facing away from Emma, fiddling with the spoon she had put down. “Ever since the night we went out, that night in Donwell’s, when he asked me to dance with him so I wouldn’t have to stay with Elton, I’ve had these… feelings towards him.”

“And do you know if he feels the same?” Emma somehow managed to croak, already knowing the answer. Hoping that she knew the answer.

“I think he does.” Emma couldn’t bear to look at even the back of her, so she looked down into her lap. Her right thumb was digging hard into the palm of her hand, and she hadn’t even realised. “He’s so kind and sweet to me. The way he talks to me about university, my reading, my life, like he’s really interested in me.” Although Harriet’s words showed her convictions, her voice had grown steadily less assured, until she weakly said: “I think… I’m almost certain that he feels the same.”

Emma almost gasped before she spoke again, desperate to have her voice be heard. She impatiently brushed away tears that threatened to fall from her eyes. “Harriet, look, I know George better than anyone. Don’t you maybe think that he’s been kind to you because, well, he’s a nice person? I th-think that perhaps he likes being your fr-friend, but don’t you think he might be too old for you? Too serious, at the very least. Harriet?”

The silence that fell was oppressive. Emma could hear the blood pounding in her ears.  
“You want George for yourself.”  
Emma looked up, and saw Harriet stood staring at her incredulously.  
“No, Harriet, that isn’t what I meant.”

“Yes it is!” Harriet’s voice rose as she stepped towards Emma; a tear track gleamed, silver in the light, on her left cheek. “You can’t help yourself, can you? You insult me and come round to apologise, but you can’t even manage that, you have to keep sticking your nose in my business, where I don’t want it!” She laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. “He loves you, I know that, Emma. I’ve been kidding myself. But you couldn’t even bring yourself to be honest about that, could you? You had to sit there and say that he’s too old, too boring for someone like me, instead of just telling the truth. You made me say no to Robert Martin, and now he won’t even look at me at work!” Harriet was crying now, and Emma thought her heart was going to break. “I convinced myself that I was in love with Elton and gave him the thing that was most special to me. I’ve convinced myself that I’m in love with George, when he probably sees me as nothing more than a little sister type. And all because you convinced me that a guy who really liked me, for me, was beneath my standards.”

Emma had never felt more stricken. She wiped her cheeks and stood up, tried to move towards Harriet, but the girl stepped backwards, her face crumpling.

“I think you should go, Emma.”

“Harriet-“

“Please.”

“Harriet, I got us tickets for R-Robert’s concert tomorrow night.” Emma spoke over Harriet, and Harriet looked up, her eyes shining. “I went to see him today. I know I vowed no more meddling, but I wanted to set things right.”

Harriet didn’t speak, but Emma thought she saw the hint of a blush on her cheeks, so she pressed on. “He still likes you, I know it. He’s expecting you there.”  
Emma watched Harriet carefully; she blushed deeper, quickly looked at Emma then looked away, then finally pressed a hand to her mouth. “Thank you.” Her voice was muffled behind her fingers.

“Please don’t thank me, Harriet, I can’t bear it. I don’t deserve it.” Emma risked moving forwards; this time, Harriet stayed put. She moved her hand, and Emma saw the traces of a smile. “I’ve been terrible. But I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Harriet. I know I can’t buy my way back into your good books with concert tickets, but-”

“Emma.” Harriet cut her off. “It’s okay. It’s all okay.” She smiled. “We’re going to have a great time tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of an emotional rollercoaster !! also sorry not very much george content in this chapter... but that shall be rectified, don't worry
> 
> i have really loved writing this version of harriet; i wanted her to be able to forgive emma quickly because she can see that emma is really trying to make amends in her own way, but also make it clear that she has her own mind and is able to stand up for herself
> 
> hope you're all well xx
> 
> p.s. updates will be coming fairly quickly bc i have a few chapters stored up that i've been waiting to post, plus i'm ill atm (not covid don't worry) so all i'm doing is lying in bed writing this fic in advance
> 
> p.p.s. all of you patient peeps waiting for smut, your time has nearly come ;)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smut warning !!

At work the next day, Emma could see the excitement that Robert was harbouring. She knew that his band had played gigs before, but usually they were a supporting act, quickly forgotten. This time, according to the tickets she had bought, they were playing at The Brunswick, a fairly new and fairly trendy bar that had opened in the neighbouring town. When Emma walked through to the kitchen to get her lunch on shift, she caught Robert’s eye. He gave her a shy smile but didn’t look away like he used to. Emma had told him to leave his shift early to get all of his things together; for a moment, the tall man looked like he would hug her, but eventually gave her a slightly awkward pat on the arm.

As Emma was busy making a cappuccino for a new customer later on, she spotted a tall, hulking figure moving carefully through the café. She turned around and smiled at Robert from where he was stood outside the window; he raised his hand in a small wave and smiled before loping off to meet his bandmates.

And who should come hurtling through the door ten minutes later? Harriet practically sprinted to the counter, her hair scraped back ineffectually. 

“I thought you had lectures today?” Emma began making her friend a drink – iced coffee with a pump of hazelnut syrup, come rain, shine or freezing cold afternoon in late October.

“I had one this morning but none this afternoon, so I went for a coffee with Grace and then came here.”

“For more coffee.” Emma smiled to herself – Harriet was finally mentioning other friends, and it now warmed her heart instead of making her jealous. “Excited for tonight?”

Harriet grimaced and walked behind the counter to finish making her own coffee as Emma greeted a new customer. “Yeah, I am. I really am, but I’m nervous as well. What if he doesn’t like me anymore? What if I don’t like him anymore, and I just think I do, and I’m leading him on?”

“Thank you, sir, have a nice day.” Emma smiled sweetly at the construction worker and handed him his sandwich before turning back to Harriet. “He definitely still likes you. After he invited me along tonight and I mentioned you, his whole face just lit up.”

Harriet blushed.

“And…” Emma took a deep breath before speaking again. They had thankfully gotten everything out last night, argued then cried then made up – but still, Emma had to check. She had to. “Are you sure that you don’t have any… real feelings for George? Because, not that it would, but if anything were to, I mean, with George and I, if we-“

“Emma.” Harriet’s voice was gentle, stopping Emma from babbling. “I said this last night, so I’ll say it again: he loves you. And I’m pretty sure you love him too. I can tell you don’t want to talk about that right now, so let’s not, but let me assure you – I think I liked him because… he was there. I was still upset over Elton and had all of these lingering feelings for Robert. And you’re right, George is simply a lovely person. I was kidding myself, okay?”

*

Much later, when the sky outside was dark and clouds had covered the stars, Emma and Harriet entered the gig venue, Emma wincing slightly at the noise. The band weren’t due to start for half an hour, but it was already packed, students and old rockers alike either stood at the bar or milling around by the stage, waiting. Music was playing loudly already from a speaker on the stage at the back - very heavy music with lots of shouting and guitars. Harriet, in contrast to Emma, was grinning and bobbing her head. “I think that’s one of their demos on the speaker. Good, isn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah. Really good.” Emma hoped she sounded convincing. As Harriet stood bobbing her head along to the crashing drums, Emma looked around. She had stopped checking her phone for the whole day, knowing that the only person she wanted to hear from wouldn’t have texted her. But, despite herself, she couldn’t help hoping…

“Shall we get a drink?” Harriet tugged gently on Emma’s sleeve, snapping her out of her reverie.

“Sure.”

With their pints, the two girls stood at the bar, Emma happily allowing Harriet to ramble on about which songs she hoped the band would play. They tactfully avoided talking about George, until a new cohort arrived. Emma almost spilt her drink as she felt a large hand clap her on the back; she gave Harriet a microscopic eyeroll before turning around to greet Frank, who had Jane, Perry and Dixie in tow.

“Woodhouse!” He crowed, leaning in for a hug. “Where’ve you been, you little minx? Nobody’s seen you for ages.”

“Jane’s seen me.” Emma replied, before lightly pushing Frank away to hug Jane. “She rescued me yesterday – I had an emergency, so she ran the café for a few hours.”

Frank looked slightly taken aback at this new development. “Oh, right. Wow.” Emma saw Dixie raise her eyebrows slightly at Perry, who shrugged – they had all known about Emma’s less-than-friendly feelings towards Jane. She ignored them and spoke to Jane directly. “Again, thanks so much for that. You’re a real lifesaver.”

“Hey, it’s fine. I enjoyed it, actually!” Jane said brightly. Frank looked at his girlfriend, then at Emma, before shaking his head. 

“Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I need a drink. Woodhouse, Harriet?”

“We’re fine thanks, Frank.” 

“I’ll get a round in,” Jane offered, kissing Frank on the cheek before approaching the bar. As Emma watched Frank look at Jane with the most tender expression she had ever seen on his ridiculous face, she almost laughed at the thought of being with him. How did she ever convince herself that she liked him? All because he ignored her in college, and she was starstruck.

“You okay, Emma?” Frank was looking at her now, a sly smile on his face. “You look mischievous.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just thought of something funny.”

“So, is Knightley showing his face tonight or is it beneath him?”

Emma frowned. “Um, I don’t know. I don’t think so. I haven’t really heard from him.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

Frank was smirking. Emma narrowed her eyes at him. “Just because you’re threatened by George, Frank, doesn’t mean you have to talk all this shit about him.”

“Hey, hey! I was just being neighbourly.” Frank held up his large hands, laughing with what Emma thought was nervousness. “And I’m not threatened by him, Woodhouse. Jane told me all about their history and I’m cool with it, yeah?” He seemed to consider something for a moment, before raising his eyebrows. “I think it’s you that’s threatened by Knightley.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you already know.”

“Frank…” Emma added a note of warning to her voice. Frank chuckled and looked around quickly, before leaning in towards her.

“He’s the only person who holds you to accountability. That’s why you like him so much, because he’s not afraid of you.”

He moved back again, looking off to the side and waving. Emma, feeling slightly stunned, turned her head to see Jane walking back towards them. She stared up at Frank, not knowing what to say.

“See?” He smirked again, winked. “Not as stupid as I look.”

“What are you two talking about?” Jane appeared at Frank’s shoulder, holding his drink out for him. Frank took it, still smirking at Emma.

“Oh, nothing much. Just having a little friendly debate.”

Emma opened her mouth, affronted, to respond, but was suddenly distracted by Harriet flying towards her. “Emma! They’re coming on, quick, I’m at the front.” 

Harriet grabbed her sleeve and pulled her through the shifting crowd, until they were both stood right at the front. Emma was squashed in-between Harriet and Perry, and was soon boxed in by a group of strangers who had had the same idea as Harriet and moved to the front of the crowd. The stage was set and the main lights suddenly went low, leaving four spotlights on the stage. As the demo music continued playing, the band walked on one by one, the crowd cheering as if they were real celebrities. Lastly, the hulking figure of Robert Martin loped his way on stage, and Emma’s ears were assaulted by an ear-splitting shriek from Harriet. Although it was clear that Rob couldn’t see out into the venue, Emma saw him grin slightly in acknowledgement. Harriet was practically vibrating with excitement, until the first song started with a crash from Robert’s drum-kit. 

Emma had to admit to herself – they weren’t half bad. It wasn’t the kind of music that she would shuffle on her Spotify, but the slower songs were pretty good, and the bulk of them were loud and headbang-y enough to get simply lost in the noise. The band’s stage presence was electric, with one of the songs coming to an end when the lead singer ripped off his shirt and threw it into the crowd, hoards of drunken girls leaping over each other to claim it. Robert was playing the drums like it would kill him to stop, sweat flying off his forehead as he moved from one song to the next. Emma lost herself in the music for a while, dancing with her eyes shut and her head back – when she opened them, she realised that she had been pushed back a fair bit. After a quick scan of the place, she could see Harriet, still at the front, holding the discarded, sweaty shirt above her head, throwing her body about to the music. Emma smiled. 

After about forty minutes of continuous music, the band stopped for a short break, wiping their necks with towels and glugging bottles of water. As Emma fought through the crowd to get back to the bar, she spied Robert Martin crouched at the edge of the small stage, leaning down and talking to someone – Harriet.

“Can I get a bottle of water, please?” Emma panted to the bartender. She leaned her back against the edge of the bar, trying to get her breath back. She felt pretty proud of herself – George had only crossed her mind when Frank had brought him up. Tonight wasn’t about him.

“Hi.”

A familiar, low voice prompted Emma to turn around, and suddenly she was staring into the blue eyes of George Knightley.

Well. So much for that.

Emma felt her mouth go dry, but forced herself to speak. “Hi.”

George looked lost for a moment, his eyes flitting to somewhere behind Emma’s head and his hands twisting together. Then he smiled slightly. “How are you?”

“Good. And you?”  
“Yeah, fine thanks.”

It was undeniably awkward – this wasn’t them, this wasn’t George and Emma. Since when had they been on a formal, introductory basis? George seemed to feel the same way, because he looked down slightly, a pink tinge at the top of his ears. He spoke to the ground.

“You went round to Harriet’s.” 

Emma frowned. “How do you..? Oh. Harriet told you.”

He looked at her properly. “Yes. She seemed to think it imperative that I knew you apologised.”

“Well. Now you know.”

“Yes.”

“Did you come with anyone?” Emma kept hr gaze steadily focused on his, almost in challenge. 

“No. I’ve been here all night.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to.

“Why did you come over here then?”

“I had to.” He said this last part quickly, almost speaking over her. His eyes dropped to Emma’s lips, and she almost shuddered. She could feel her face growing hot.

“And why is that?” Emma could hardly hear her own voice due to the blood rushing in her ears, but knew she must sound hoarse.

“Emma –“ George stepped towards her, and Emma felt the breath catch in her throat. Before he could speak again, she cut him off.

“I think I’ve heard enough of the band tonight.”

His hands were clenched by his sides. He licked his lips almost imperceptibly. “Yeah?”

“Definitely.”

George didn’t speak.

“I could do with a lift home.” Emma’s gaze didn’t leave George’s as she spoke. Her heart felt like it could burst out of her chest any moment.

“I have my car.”

“Well then,” Still looking at him steadily, Emma took a sip of her water. She saw George shut his mouth and stand up straighter, his chest rising and falling quicker than before. “That’s good news.”

*

The drive home had felt like it had lasted for years, when in fact it was not even twenty minutes. Watching the scenery fly past, Emma vowed to text Harriet later on – after she had spent some time with Robert Martin – and let her know where she was. The car had been warm, or perhaps it had just been Emma that was hot, and she struggled to keep from reaching out and placing her hand over George’s. They had spoken briefly, but mostly drove in silence, the tension in the air as thick as molasses. 

When the car finally turned into Highbury, Emma didn’t even have to tell George where to go. He turned the vehicle away from the road that led to the cottage, and instead parked outside the block of flats. The engine stopped, and the air was silent.

“You know,” George spoke, staring ahead of him. Emma watched his face in profile. “When you said I was jealous of Frank Churchill, you were right.”

Frank was the last thing on Emma’s mind. She frowned slightly but didn’t reply.

George turned his head quickly. “Are you determined to make me say it?” The corners of his mouth turned up into a half-smile. “Of course you are, because you like to make things difficult for me.”

This was said with no malice – in fact, the opposite; Emma watched George reach his hands out tentatively. They encased hers, warm and soft. She looked down at them, sat in her lap. 

“I was jealous of Frank because he had your affections. Because you looked at him in the way that I wanted you to look at me, and I couldn’t stand it.”

Emma’s eyes prickled with unshed tears. Slowly, George moved one of his hands up to caress her cheek; she leaned into his warm palm, never taking her eyes from his. “I’m no good at speeches,” he was almost whispering now. “Maybe if I loved you less, I could talk about it more.”

“You love me?”

“More than you’ll ever know. And I haven’t shown it, I’ve lectured and blamed you, argued with you almost constantly.”

“You made me lunch.” Emma whispered. “You made me lunch, and you looked after my father, and you’ve help me atone for my mistakes.”

“And you…” George rubbed his thumb briefly over her cheekbone. “You have been the most wonderful friend, the best I could ask for. But we’ve danced around this for too long, and I can’t bear it. Emma –“

“Oh!” A pressure had formed behind Emma’s nose and she began blinking, her eyes suddenly watering. George furrowed his brow. 

“Are you – oh, God!”

“Shit!” Emma could feel something trickling from her nose down her cupid’s bow, and suddenly the metallic taste of blood was in her mouth. George was flapping ineffectually, one hand still on her face in an attempt to catch the blood. “Have you got a, shit, a tissue or something?”

“Um, I, maybe…” George pawed around the car, opening compartments and checking the doors whilst Emma tried to stem the flow of blood with her hand. “No, I can’t find anything, sorry. Are you okay, does it hurt?”

“No, its just a nosebleed, it’s just bloody annoying. I get them sometimes, and of course I had to get one now.” She looked at George, who still had an anxious expression on his face, and tried to smile. She must have had blood on her teeth, because George’s eyes widened in panic. “Can we go inside so I can clean up?”

“Yes, yes of course!”

He practically leapt out of the car and was opening the door for her as quick as a flash. They walked quickly towards the building, both shivering slightly in the cold, Emma with her head tipped slightly forward. There was already blood on her top. It couldn’t have come at a worse time, and all the emotions, the shock and happiness and nerves were all mixed up with the utter embarrassment of getting a nosebleed during a love confession. To top it off, the lifts were out of order, so they had to walk up what felt like a hundred flights of stairs. By the time they got to the top, Emma sweaty and panting, the flow had stopped, but there was a crust of blood on her lip. As George fumbled with the door key, she groaned.

“Are you okay?” George asked, turning around worriedly whilst still trying to open the door. “Have you lost – for God’s sake, this door is always stiff. Got it!” The door swung open and he turned around to face Emma. “You look pale, how much blood have you lost?”

“It’s fine, I’m fine.” Emma pushed past him into the apartment, heading straight for the bathroom. She shut the door quickly and grabbed some loo roll, dampening it under the tap and dabbing at her nose and lip.

She stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was falling out of its ponytail, blonde strands hanging messily around her face, which was rather pale, save for two pink spots high on her cheeks. The blood was coming off her skin, at least, but her nice blue top was ruined.

“Shit.”

“Are you okay in there?” George’s voice was worried from where he was obviously stood, waiting, just outside the door. “Do you need anything?”

With one last look in the mirror, Emma sighed. The blood was gone, but she looked a mess. This was as good as it was going to get. She opened the door, revealing  
George with his hands clasped together and his brows furrowed with worry.

“All sorted?”  
“Yep.”

A short, loaded silence; then, Emma caught his eye. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards – and suddenly, she couldn’t stop laughing. They were both roaring helplessly with laughter, doubled over for far too long. When Emma finally stopped, she had a stitch in her side. George chuckled lightly a few more times, wiping his eyes.

“Well,” he started, still laughing. “At least this will be a fun anecdote for dinner parties.”

“When have you ever been to a dinner party?” Emma giggled.

“I haven’t. But, if I were ever to get an invitation to one, I would bring you with me.”

They had both stopped laughing. The air was thick with tension again. When Emma had woken up that morning, she had never thought that her night would end with her standing in George Knightley’s bathroom, blood stains on her top, after he confessed his love for her in an overheated car.

But, she also thought to herself: this probably wasn’t how the night would end.

He was watching her, seemed to be studying her face. Slowly, Emma moved towards him, until the top of her head was level with his chin. She rested the side of her face against his check, feeling the warmth of him enveloping her, his familiar scent all around her. His arms gradually rose up to wrap around her shoulders, and she placed her own arms around his waist.

“For the record,” she said, her voice muffled in his chest. “I love you too.”

She felt rather than heard him sigh, and suddenly his hands were on her shoulders gently pushing her away. His face hovered above hers: he was beautiful. There was no other word for it. His hands moved to cup her face, caressing her cheek again, and she shut her eyes. When his lips touched hers, it wasn’t hard, or bruising, or angry, like the kiss outside of the pub. That was all it was, his lips on hers, a feather-light touch – but it was enough to make Emma’s skin burn and her eyelids flutter. George pulled away first, his blue eyes slightly hooded. He wasn’t smiling, but Emma knew his face better than anybody else’s; he was happy. 

She looked quickly over his shoulder – the bedroom door was ajar.

*

“You remember that night?”  
“Which night?”  
“The night with Elton.”  
“Of course.

Emma smiled down at George, relishing what she was about to say. “Before he barged in… were you going to offer to give me an orgasm?”

The effect was immediate. George blushed from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, then groaned and placed both hands over his eyes. “Oh, my God, I thought you would have forgotten about that.”

The kiss outside the bathroom had led to another, then another, then another, until they were devouring each other, inhaling each other. They had walked, still kissing, towards George’s room, Emma almost tripping over in the process. That was something that she hadn’t expected – being comfortable enough to not be perfect, for things to go wrong. In George’s bedroom, she had started removing her top until it got stuck on her head. Laughing, George had pulled it the rest of the way off before kissing her lightly on the forehead. He had begun removing his own shirt, but Emma had stilled his hands and done it herself. Obviously she had seen him shirtless before, countless times – but that was when they were kids. This was real, this was happening, and Emma almost couldn’t believe that she was in a position to be unbuttoning George Knightley’s shirt, button by button with shaking hands, leaning down to kiss him on the chest and hear the breath catch in his throat, stroke the light dusting of gold hair on his pectorals. He had lain her down on the bed after that – but instead of getting straight to it, as Emma had originally assumed would happen, he simply gazed at her, one hand stroking her hair. Then, Emma had brought up Elton, and he had rolled away, embarrassed.

“How could I have forgotten about that?” Emma laughed, tugging at his arms. He wouldn’t budge, still refusing to look at her. “Don’t be so embarrassed!”

“How can I not be embarrassed?” George finally moved his hands; she could see he was still red, but grinning. “I hadn’t even told you how I felt about you, yet I was ready to offer you a free orgasm?”

“Free?” Emma wrinkled her nose. “Why wouldn’t it be free in the first place?”

“Oh, you know what I mean. No strings attached.”

“So, if you were to give me an orgasm now…” Emma lightly ran her fingers over his chest. He gulped. “There would be strings attached?”

“Most definitely.”

“Good.” Suddenly, all of her bravado left without warning. It was all fun and games romping around the apartment, kissing and laughing and talking about orgasms, but what did she know? When Emma spoke again, her voice was unintentionally quieter. “George?”

“Yes?”

“I…” Emma stopped herself. What if she sounded stupid? George sat up, a look of concern on his face, but didn’t say anything. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Emma, we don’t have to tonight, or any time soon, if you’re not ready.”

“No, I am ready.” Emma sat up too, facing him. She touched his face, feeling the short stubble that was growing in. “I’m ready. And it’s you, I trust you with, God, with anything. I just can’t help being nervous.” Suddenly feeling like some sort of ignorant child, she looked down. “What if… I’m disappointing?”

“Hey.” A hand lifted her chin up, gently holding her face. George’s eyes were the clearest blue that Emma had ever seen, and they were looking intensely into her own. 

“Don’t say that. You aren’t disappointing in any sense of the word. You’re wonderful.” He leaned in and placed his lips close to her ear, his breath on Emma’s neck making her shiver. “You’ll just have to let me show you what to do.”

Emma shuddered. “Okay.” It came out as a whisper, which turned into a quiet sigh as she felt George’s mouth move from her ear to the side of her neck. He placed kisses and licks on her skin as she slowly moved down her neck, making her breath come out shaky. She felt him subtly reach around and unhook her bra, and briefly Emma wondered how he got it off so easily, but then he was sliding the straps down her arms with a feather-light touch whilst kissing the other side of her neck, and Emma forgot how to think. She shut her eyes and tipped her head back, shutting her mouth against a building moan, as George gently bit the skin at the bottom of her throat.

“Does that feel good?” His voice vibrated against Emma’s throat, tickling slightly.

“Mhm.” 

“Sorry?” He moved away, his eyes level with hers again. “Use your words, Em.”

“Yes.” She said shakily. “It felt good.”

“When something feels good,” George said, placing his hands on her shoulders and moving her slowly to lie back. “I don’t want you to stop yourself. Make noises if you need to. I want to hear you.”

Emma swallowed thickly, her lashes fluttering as she looked at the man hovering above her. George smiled and moved his head down, continuing with the kissing and licking and nipping. He placed his mouth over her nipple, licking it softly, and that single light touch made Emma gasp. She felt him smile against her chest.

“That’s more like it.”

He moved to the other one, giving it more attention that made Emma gasp again. Too soon, George moved away, kissing her stomach. Emma giggled slightly and he looked up at her, a smile in his eyes.

“What’s funny?”  
“Tickles.”

For a moment, they looked at each other. “I can’t believe this is happening.” Emma whispered. Only in her most private dreams, in the thoughts that she rarely allowed to reach the service, was George here, his hair tousled and his chin resting on her stomach, gazing up at her with such an adoring expression that she could cry.

“Well, it is. And I’m so happy, Emma.” He smiled, that small, perfect smile that Emma loved so much. “Now will you let me make you feel good?”

“Please.”

Without being prompted, Emma parted her legs even more, allowing George to move down again. She helped him unzip her jeans and pull them off, her heart beating faster and faster still when he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her underwear and pulled them down, over her ankles and onto the floor. For a horrible split second, Emma felt too exposed and wanted nothing more than to close her legs and turn away – then George lay back down and put his mouth on her.

For a moment or two, it just felt weird and slightly tickly. Then – 

“Oh, my God!”

Unthinkingly, Emma’s hands flew to George’s hair, anything to keep him where he was. She felt him moan against her, and arched her back up as it sent the most delicious vibrations all the way up her spine. She had never thought, never dared to dream that anything could feel this good.

“Surely,” Emma tried to gasp out as she writhed under George’s touch. “Surely, ah, this isn’t very pleasurable, oh fuck, f-for you?”  
George lifted his head and rested it against her left thigh. Emma could see wetness on his lips, and shivered. “How did I guess that you’d be a talker during sex?” His voice was low and raspy. 

“No, I just –“

“Believe it or not, but I enjoy giving a woman pleasure just as much as I enjoy receiving it.” As he spoke, George stroked his hand over Emma’s pelvis and hips, almost absentmindedly, and Emma felt goose-bumps form on her skin. Then he stopped and gave a rare smirk. “And I think I’m doing my job pretty well.”

Before Emma could reply some sort of quip, he lowered his head again, and suddenly his tongue was inside her.

“Holy shit, oh!”

His fingers pressed down against her hips, trying to stop her from moving so much, but Emma couldn’t help from writhing and wriggling. No longer was he being gentle as his lips moved fervently, licking over and over at her clit, sucking and kissing in ways that Emma had never dreamed of. She felt him groan against her again, his hands hooking under her thighs as he pulled her in closer, and she practically screamed, pleasure buzzing all over her skin, making her sweat. “Oh, fuck, George, fuck, there -“ Emma’s hands had flown back to his hair and began tugging and pulling on the blonde curls, bringing him closer and closer to her as she got closer and closer and – 

Emma gave a final whimper as George let his tongue drag flat over that maddening spot, and finally allowed the release to rampage through her body, releasing into her veins and making her toes curl.

For what felt like an hour but was more likely a minute, Emma couldn’t move, only able to lie back and allow the wonderful dizziness and elation to abate. When she opened her heavy eyes again, the first thing she could see was George at the end of the bed, her arms crossed on top of the duvet with his head resting on top of them.

He grinned. “Hi.”  
“Hey.”

Emma felt too spaced out to be embarrassed about her nakedness, so all she could do we vaguely gesture for George to come towards her. He got up and sat on the bed next to her torso, looking down at her with a small smile on his face. “So, now you know what an orgasm feels like.”

“I do.”

“And is it something you’d be interested in having again?”

Emma grinned at his playful tone. “Maybe. If there were more on offer.” She reached her hand up to stroke his arm, and he abruptly took it and placed it by his face, gently turning it over so he could kiss her palm. It was such a tender gesture that Emma felt her eyes welling up. Then, suddenly she noticed a distinct… shape in George’s trousers. She sat up.

“Do you need me to…”

“Oh, no. Don’t worry about me.” George awkwardly tried to cover the bulge with his hand, as if he hadn’t just been making Emma almost cry using his tongue. “We can leave it for tonight, if you’re tired.”

“I am tired.” Emma said quietly. “But… not that tired.”

“Em –“

“I want to make you feel good too.” Emma leaned forward and kissed him on his neck, mirroring his actions from before. She heard him swallow thickly. “Show me how I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH
> 
> this is going to be one of those chapters that i post and then immediately run away from to sit in a corner and hope it works
> 
> that was intense !! also i HAD to include the nosebleed bit from the 2020 film, i loved it so much
> 
> (p.s. this is my first real smut so sorry if it's bad, but more to come hopefully)
> 
> love to you all and thanks for all the wonderful feedback so far


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> contains mild sexual content

The first thing Emma noticed when she woke up was the greyish light filtering in through the window above her head, casting a cool and gloomy mood over the room. It was early. Slowly, she rubbed her eyes and sat up slightly, before her sleep-addled brain finally caught up and she realised that this wasn’t her room.

Stifling a yawn, Emma looked down at the figure sleeping beside her. His back was to her, his shoulders outside of the covers so she could see the muscles rippling as he breathed deeply. George’s dark blonde curls were mussed and tousled from a mixture of sleep and sex; Emma felt a few butterflies awaken in her stomach as a memory of tugging on his hair resurfaced from the night before. The wind whistled outside, rattling the windowpanes lightly, but George seemed dead to the world. Emma always remembered him being a deep sleeper – on occasion, if Mr. Woodhouse was busy, a much younger Emma would have to sleep over at the Knightley house when Mrs. Goddard became too frail to look after a child. It was more frequent after Mrs. Woodhouse passed and Mr. Woodhouse had to arrange the funeral. Isabella would stay in John’s room, and George would gallantly sleep on the floor whilst Emma took his bed. And she could never wake him in the morning for love nor money – that habit seemed to have stuck with him.

Gently, Emma reached out her hand and placed it on his warm back, tracing his spine. He shifted slightly, made a small groaning noise, but didn’t wake. Emma smiled.

As quietly as possible, Emma swung her legs out of bed and got up, the cold air hitting her unpleasantly before she realised, she was still naked. Looking around, she could see the discarded mess of clothes littered around the bedroom. The blue top was hanging off a bedpost, and Emma wrinkled her nose when she saw the bloodstains. On the floor just underneath the ruined top, was George’s white shirt. With a quick look at his still sleeping form, Emma quickly put on the creased garment and retrieved her underwear from under the bed, before padding through to the bathroom.

She squinted in the mirror to assess the damage. Her hair was a mess, but was semi-fixed after Emma hurriedly ran her fingers through it. She splashed some cold water on her face and tried to remove any remnants of last nights makeup. She figured that most of it would have come off on the sheets, and watched her face in the mirror as it turned red at the memory.

_“Are you, oh fuck… are you okay?”_

_Emma could hardly breathe; he was all around her, in her, part of her. She could see his arms trembling as he held himself up, not moving. It didn’t hurt as much as she had expected, but Emma guessed that the two orgasms that had already crashed through her body were helping with that. She could smell her own sweat, could feel her skin sticking to his. George’s face was red and slightly contorted with the effort of not moving whilst she adjusted to the new feeling. It was incredibly hot._

_“Yes, I’m fine, I’m fine,” Emma said shakily, hardly trusting her own voice not to give out. “You can move.”_  
“Are you-“  
“Please, George, move, please…”

_He didn’t have to ask again, obeying and beginning to rock his hips. Emma gasped and dug her nails into his back as he set a steady pace – he was so deep, so deliciously part of her, that she almost couldn’t believe it. She could hear quiet grunting noises from the back of George’s throat as he moved his head down to kiss her neck and shoulders, licking the sweat from her skin and making her moan._

_“Fuck,” he swore quietly, and Emma was shocked by how much it turned her on to hear him lose more and more control. “Fuck, Emma.”_

_“Say it again, say my name.”_

_“Emma, oh my… Emma, fuck, Emma…”_

_Emma moaned, throwing her head back as he sped up, clawing at his back as it all began to build. He put his weight onto one arm and reached the other down, his thumb circling her clit as he continued thrusting, deeper and deeper. She cried out, almost screamed, tears pricking the back of her eyes._

_“I love you,” George panted in her ear. “Oh, fuck, I love you.”_

For good measure, Emma splashed her face again. It wasn’t even half six yet, she couldn’t get this riled up already. When she looked back into the mirror, something suddenly caught her eye.

“What the…”

Two very conspicuous and dark purple bruises ornamented her skin, one low on the right side of her neck, and one on her left collarbone. She rolled her eyes – George was so going to pay for those.

The coffee machine wasn’t working, so Emma had to quietly dig around the kitchen cupboards to find the cafetière that she knew George never used. As she waited for the kettle to boil, Emma suddenly remembered – Harriet.

She dug her phone out of her bag, which had been abandoned on the kitchen table. Twelve texts, four missed calls. Suppressing an eyeroll, Emma rang Harriet and prepared herself for the inevitable scream.

“Emma!” Harriet picked up immediately, squealing down the line. “Finally! Where the hell did you go last night?”

Emma smiled to herself and held the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she poured the hot water into the cafetière. “Good morning to you too. How did it go with Bobby?”

“Yes, fine, fine, we’re going for a drink tonight.” Emma could have laughed at how distracted Harriet sounded whilst delivering what was definitely some momentous news, but managed to keep a straight face. “Stop changing the subject, what happened to you last night? You missed the second half of the set.”

“Oh, I, um. Didn’t feel well.”

“Bullshit.” Emma raised her eyebrows at Harriet’s rare use of profanity. She could practically see her grinning into the phone. “Did George take you home? I saw you talking to him at the bar.”

“Maybe…”

“And? What happened?”

A quiet rustling noise came from the bedroom. “Can I call you back on my lunch break? I want to hear all about the wonderful Mr. Martin.”

“Oh, you are such a –“

“Love you, bye!”

Emma ended the call, knowing wickedly that Harriet would be in desperate need for details – but the coffee needed pouring, and George was waking up.

The flat was still eerily silent as Emma walked back through to the bedroom, two steaming mugs in her hands. As she had suspected, George was awake, sleepily rubbing his eyes and trying to sit up.

“Morning,” he yawned as he spoke, running a hand through his hair. Emma sat next to him on the bed, legs crossed, and handed him a mug. “How long have you been up?”

“Only fifteen minutes or so. I’m surprised you’re awake.”

“I heard you boiling the kettle. Have you got work?”

“Yeah, me and Bates. Should be a quiet one.”

They smiled at each other over their drinks. It was all so… domestic. So normal.

“Oh!” Emma placed her mug on the bedside counter and raised her eyebrows at George. “You’re in trouble.”

He grinned and sipped his coffee. “What kind of trouble?” Emma pulled aside the collar of his shirt to reveal the hickey on the side of her neck; George opened his mouth to reply, but Emma then revealed the other one. He shut his mouth and clearly attempted to suppress a laugh. “Oh, wow. Oh dear.”

“Oh dear, indeed.” Emma sighed and rubbed at her neck. “It feels so juvenile. Even the word ‘hickey’ sounds childish.”

“Well, you’re not completely innocent, Em.” George leaned over to place his mug on the cabinet next to Emma’s, and she felt her stomach twist as the muscles in his back rippling with his movements. Then she saw what he was referring to.

“Oh, my God!” Emma leaned towards him and lightly ran a hand over his scratched back. They weren’t deep, but they looked angry and red. “I’m so sorry, they look painful.”

“Nah, they’re not too bad.” His expression changed, as though he had properly noticed her for the first time. “What are you wearing?”

Emma blushed and looked down. “Oh, um, my top has blood on it from my nose, and I just needed something to put on to make the coffee, and it’s the first thing I saw. Sorry.”

George considered her for a moment, then leaned in and captured her mouth in a kiss. It was slow and lazy and lovely, completely devoid of urgency, and he tasted like coffee. When he pulled away, Emma could see him smiling. “Don’t say sorry. I don’t think you realise how sexy you look in my clothes.”

Emma smiled as George ran his hand through her hair. She tried to look away from his eyes, but found she couldn’t. Was this what being in love felt like?

“Last night was…” She tried desperately to find the right words – but how could any word in the English language capture the emotional release, the overload of sensation and emotion to the point where they both had to fight hard not to cry? The feeling of gripping the skin of somebody so perfect, pulling them close until there are no longer two bodies, but one entity? George had always been a part of her life, which is where the familiarity and comfortability lay, but this new territory, the absolute and indefinite love Emma felt for him that could now be recognised and acted upon – it was beautiful and terrifying and wonderful and too much and not enough all at once.

“Last night was what?” George smiled gently, his eyes crinkled up with mirth. “Kind of zoned out on me there, Em.”

“Last night was perfect.” Without thinking, as if it were the most natural action in the world, Emma leaned her cheek into his palm, and felt him stroke his thumb over her cheek. “I can’t believe we did that.”

“What can’t you believe about it?”

“Just that… I thought I’d be the last person you would ever look at like that. I’ve always been annoying little Emma, and you’ve always been the George who lectures and argues with me.”

“Things can change.” George sat up straighter, and the sheet moved down again ever-so-slightly. “Things have changed. You’ve always been… and you always will be… God,” he laughed lightly, looking away almost in embarrassment. “I already told you I can’t make speeches.”

“Then don’t.” This time, Emma was the one who leaned in. And this time, the kiss was more hurried, harder and more urgent as she knelt up, holding his face in her hands. When they broke apart, George’s face was below her, looking up and drinking her in like he couldn’t tear his eyes away. “You don’t need to make speeches. I just know.”

Emma felt his hands move down to hold her hips, the slight movement of his thumbs over her waist making her dizzy. When George spoke, it was a whisper. “Our coffee’s going cold.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got work in an hour.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think the world would collapse if you went to work a bit late?”

In reply, Emma grinned and dipped her head again to capture his mouth, the movement gently pushing George down until he was lying underneath her.

The sun had come out, weak and watery – but the light coming through the window fell straight onto George’s face, illuminating his skin and hair to look golden.

Silently, to herself, Emma thanked a God that she didn’t quite believe in for giving her George Knightley. 

*

This was stupid. This was so incredibly stupid.

By the time the morning had taken its course, after the shower had been thoroughly used and some much-needed coffee had been consumed (it had ended up going stony cold, and George had insisted on brewing a fresh batch because it was “a crime to heat up any drink in a microwave”), Emma had looked down at her phone in horror to see that she would in fact have to make her entrance at work lot later than intended. So, at half eight in the morning, Emma was running through the streets of Highbury in a jumper and sweatpants combination pilfered from George’s wardrobe, sweating and panting despite the cold, trying to explain down the phone to her father why she didn’t come home the night before.

She skidded to a halt outside the door before almost crashing into the shop, causing a few customers enjoying their morning coffee to look up in surprise. Blushing, Emma tried to keep her head down as she walked through, deliberately avoiding the gaze of many of the customers. The ever-present curse of living in a small village: Emma knew almost everybody who was sat at every table.

Miss Bates was squinting into the cake display when Emma made it to the counter, her breath eventually returning to her lungs. “Georgiana, I’m so sorry, I completely overslept –“

“Oh, Emma, don’t be silly! Dear girl, it isn’t like you make a habit of it.” Miss Bates smiled as she babbled away, and Emma was able to lean against the counter and let herself cool down. “I know what young people are like with their sleep, you need as much of it as possible! But… oh, dear Emma. Did you fall over?”

Bemused, Emma blinked at the old woman. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve got a bruise on your neck!”

Emma quickly clamped a hand onto the side of her neck and felt her face heat up even more. “Oh, um. Yes, I, uh, I walked into a wall.”

“Oh, Emma! You poor thing, do you need any ice on it?”

“No!” Emma almost shouted to stop the woman from bustling into the kitchen to demand ice. She smiled in what she hoped was a convincingly normal way. “No, thank you. It’s perfectly fine. I’ll go and get changed, now.”

“Okay, dear.”

Feeling mortified, Emma practically sprinted away into the kitchen. Damn George, damn him for making her look like she’d been attacked by a hoover.

“Woodhouse?”

A familiar voice made Emma stop where she was. Robert Martin walked out from behind the pot-washing area, wiping his hands on his apron. He was smiling, a complete rarity. “You alright? You look flustered.”

“It’s just so bloody hot in here.” Emma grumbled, throwing a resentful glare in the general direction of the food preparation area. That morning, which had been so relaxing and peaceful with George, seemed like it had been a million years ago.

“Want to go outside? I was going to have a smoke break anyway.” Robert eyes suddenly wondered to Emma’s neck and twinkled mischievously. “Looks like you had a good night.”

Emma smiled against her will. “Shut up. I need to put concealer on it, you can help me.”

In the tiny space between the back office and the fence outside, Robert sat on an upturned bucket and lit a cigarette.

“Want one?”

“No, I don’t smoke.” Emma squinted into the tiny pocket mirror in her hand, carefully daubing concealer onto her neck. “Does that look okay?”

Robert looked up, made a non-committal noise. “Yeah, I think so.” He took a drag of his fag and smiled. Leaning against the doorframe and considering her companion, Emma realised that he really wasn’t that bad looking when he smiled. “So…” He raised his eyebrows. “You left early last night.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. Your band were great, though.”

“It’s okay, Woodhouse, I know it isn’t your type of music.”

“Harriet seemed to like it.” Like a switch had been flipped at the mention of Harriet, Robert’s face seemed to light up from the inside.

“Uh, yeah. I think she did.” Emma waited for a moment, not asking anything. Then, as she expected, he continued, looking down at the cigarette in his hand almost bashfully. “She came backstage with the band after the show. I showed her my drumsticks and stuff, then I drove her home. We’re, um, going for a drink tonight, actually.”

“I know.” Robert looked at her quizzically. “She rang me this morning.”

“Ah. I should have guessed.”

Emma gave her neck one last cursory glance before snapping the mirror shut and standing up straight. “Well, I should probably find my spare uniform and get cracking.”

“And whose clothes are these, then?” Robert stood up, throwing his cigarette butt away and stretching. Emma blushed.

“I went back to George’s last night.”

“Knightley?” Robert laughed slightly as he followed her back into the office. “I can’t say I didn’t see that coming.”

“What do you mean?”

“Woodhouse, everyone and their mum was waiting for you two to stop arguing and just get it out of your system. Even me, and we weren’t even friends until about ten minutes ago.”

Emma couldn’t even dispute this backhanded insult – it was completely true. “Well, it’s definitely… out of our systems now.”

“Good.”

Before Robert could leave and return to the kitchen, Emma spoke again. “Rob?”

He hung back, poking his head around the door. “Yeah?”

“I’m still really sorry about everything. You and Harriet… it could have happened a lot sooner if I hadn’t interfered.”

There was a short pause, then Robert smiled, showing two deep dimples in his cheeks. “Its’ okay, Emma. It’s all fine.”

*

The shift was slow, as usual. Emma tried not to let herself get irritated with Miss Bates’ constant yammering – she was a lovely lady and a very lenient boss (probably too lenient to effectively run a business, Emma thought) but, by God, could she talk. Emma had to keep taking deep, steadying breaths as she copied yet another updated specials menu onto the blackboard, whilst Miss Bates’ voice circled around her head.

“… and of course, the doctor, a lady doctor, actually, which you don’t see very often, said that she was absolutely fine, but I know my niece, Emma, I know her better than anyone, and she was as pale and trembling as a kitten in the rain!” She paused to take a bite of one of the lopsided cupcakes that wasn’t suitable for sale, and Emma was finally awarded some peace.

For about thirty seconds.

“So I said to this doctor, I said, ‘Now you look here, my poor niece was almost flung from a boat into the murky depths of the lake, she is quite obviously in shock and in need of some remedial treatment!’ And, I tell you, this lady doctor looked at me like I was crackers! All they did was give her a cup of tea and a blanket, the poor girl could hardly hold the cup for trembling! I tell you, if that lovely boy Frank hadn’t been there to catch her, my poor Jane could have been, God forbid, drowned!”

At this final exclamation, Emma jumped and scratched the piece of chalk across the board, completely ruining her lettering. She shut her eyes briefly, then turned around. “I’m glad that Jane is okay, Georgiana. If you don’t mind, I’ll finish the specials board in a bit. I think there might be a build-up of leaves outside the café, so I’ll go and sweep those up.”

The effect was instant. Miss Bates’ eyes widened, and she looked in the direction of the front door as if there may be armed burglars just outside. “Oh, of course, my dear. Take the broom and give it a good old sweep, we can’t let all the Autumn debris build up. We’ll have no customers!”

“We don’t have any customers.” Emma muttered to herself as she found the broom behind the counter and walked through the shop. This wasn’t strictly true – there were three people sat inside with hot drinks, sheltering from the weather. Almost as soon as she wrestled her way outside with the broom, Emma regretted her offer. The late Autumn wind was freezing, cutting into Emma’s exposed skin like a knife. And it certainly had blown some debris close to the shop; there were large piles of brown and orange leaves littered around the front of the café, occasionally being blown into smaller gusts that escaped Emma’s broom. She sighed and set to work, trying to push them away from the door so potential customers wouldn’t track half of them into the shop.

Emma’s teeth chattered as she worked, and she felt goose-bumps forming on her arms – the all black t-shirt and jeans combination was not the most insular of uniforms, and the black apron didn’t help much, either. But sweeping was peacefully mindless work, so Emma allowed her thoughts to wander as she pushed all the debris away.

_In the light of the morning, Emma suddenly felt self-conscious. She hurriedly turned the water on in the shower, in the hope that the glass would steam up quickly and obscure her naked body from George. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen it – he had seen it a lot last night – but there was something so… different about showering together. Something so intimate and close._

_She heard the door open and, almost like a knee-jerk reaction, closed her body in on itself, turned away from the figure behind the fogged-up glass. George came into the bathroom and poked his head around the shower door. Emma watched his face change, the expression turning almost carnal, hungry. He was fully naked, and didn’t seem embarrassed at all._

_“Hi.” Emma’s voice was hardly above a whisper, and she cursed herself for sounding so weak. Why was this any different? They had only just been lying in bed together, coffee abandoned on the cabinet, lazily kissing and touching. What was wrong with her?_

_“Hi. Again.” George smiled slightly and stepped into the shower, shutting his eyes when the hot water hit his skin. Emma couldn’t take her eyes off his face, now dripping with the water from the shower. Then, he opened his eyes. “What’s wrong?”_

_Emma could have laughed – it was like he could sense how she was feeling without Emma even having to open her mouth. Before she could even reply, he spoke again. “And don’t say ‘nothing’. You’re a terrible liar.”_

_“No, I’m not!”_

_“We’ve already established this, remember? Your ears go pink and you talk very fast.”_

_She looked down, trying not to smile despite herself. “I don’t know. I’ve never taken a shower with anyone before.”_

_“You’d never had sex with anyone before last night, and now here we are.”_

_She laughed, still not looking at him. Her arms began moving up to cover her chest, but suddenly George’s hand was underneath her chin, lifting her head so their gazes could meet. “Hey. You’re beautiful, Emma. I don’t want you to feel like you have to cover up.”_

_“It was different last night. It was darker, and –“_

_“You looked beautiful then, and you look beautiful now.” The tone of George’s voice was soft, slightly muffled because of the water falling all around them. Emma blinked; he brought up both of his hands to push the wet hair from her face, then gently kissed both of her eyelids. She felt her heart flutter._

_“Will you let me wash your hair?”_

Maybe it was just the wind, but Emma thought she could feel her scalp tingling as she remembered the shower from that morning. They hadn’t had sex then or done anything like that – George said he didn’t want her to assume that nakedness immediately equated to sex. As he had slowly massaged shampoo into Emma’s long hair, he hadn’t spoken. It hadn’t felt right to speak, Emma thought, as though, if one of them did, it would break some unspoken spell. They had washed each other, and Emma had felt like crying – it was so tender.

“Afternoon.”

The shower was abruptly cut off and Emma crashed back to reality, looking up to face possibly the last two people that she wanted to see on Earth.

“Elton.” Emma looked at his companion, let her eyes flicker over her over so slightly. “August.”

August simpered, a hand to her chest in mock embarrassment. “Sorry, I can’t quite remember your name?” Elton tightened his jaw and looked away.

Emma blinked. Was the girl serious? “Emma. Emma Woodhouse.”

“Oh, of course!” As she spoke, August possessively lay a hand on Elton’s arm. “How could I forget? Everybody knows you around Highbury.” Emma genuinely couldn’t tell if the girl knew anything about her boyfriend’s feelings – she was either being passive aggressive to warn Emma off (as if she would ever want Elton), or she was simply a stone-cold bitch in general.

“Well, I’m not sure if that’s true.” Emma gave a shallow smile as she spoke; every time she went to catch Elton’s eye, he looked away childishly. “What brings you both to Hartfield this afternoon?”

Emma saw Elton finally open his mouth to speak, but was stopped when August spoke over him. “Oh, we were both at the Church, rehearsals for the Christmas service. Wanted something to eat that would be, well, cheap and easy, so immediately we thought of the little café across the road!”

Emma raised her eyebrows. “Christmas rehearsals? This early?”

“Oh yes,” August nodded fervently. “We really want it to be something big this year, rather than a run-of-the-mill, dinky little village service.”

What would a ‘big’ service include, Emma wondered? A pantomime donkey? A drag-queen Jesus? Elton hanging from the rafters in an angel costume?

She almost made herself laugh with that final image, but stopped when Elton’s morose face looked at her. Emma smiled in her best customer-service way instead. “Well, there’s plenty of… easy food inside. I need to get on with the sweeping, so…”

“Oh, of course! Yes, don’t let us keep you from your… sweeping.” Daintily, August stepped over a neat pile of leaves and looked back at Emma, smiling with cold eyes. “It was really lovely running into you, Emma.”

“You too. Hope the rehearsals go well.”

“I, um, just want to talk to Emma a moment.” Both women looked at Elton in surprise. “She, um, wanted to borrow a book from me.”

With one last suspicious glare, Augusta walked into the shop. Elton turned around to look at Emma, his mouth downturned; perhaps it was heartless of her, but Emma simply couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry for him.

“What do you want?”

“Is it true?” Elton spoke quickly.

“Is what true?”

“You left the bar with George Knightley last night.”

Emma tutted. This fucking village. “How do you know that? Were you even there last night?”

“Someone saw you both and it got back to me.”

Emma didn’t even bother asking who had seen them, and who specifically had told Elton. None of it mattered. She sighed. “Yes, I left with George.”

“And are you two… together?”

“I don’t really see how it’s any of your business, Philip.” Emma narrowed her eyes; she could feel all of the anger and resentment building in her chest. “You’ve got a new girlfriend. You seem very happy together.”

“Don’t laugh at me, Emma.” Elton stared at her miserably. “That’s just cruel. You know how I feel about you.”

“Then you shouldn’t have fucked my best friend.”

“If I hadn’t been with Harriet and I had told you how I felt, would you have given me a chance then?”

For a moment, he looked so forlorn that Emma was tempted to give him a hug – after all, she had known him for so many years, and her bad opinion of him had only been recently formed. Then, she remembered him towering over her in George’s flat, and the tears running down Harriet’s face, and her heart hardened.

“No. I never have and never will think of you in that way.”

The change in Elton’s demeanour was immediate. His sad face twisted into an ugly expression of anger, and he laughed bitterly. “No, of course not. I should have guessed. The great Emma Woodhouse, too good for any of us.”

“Elton, don’t –“

“You think you’re so popular, swanning around the village, flicking your hair everywhere and controlling everyone in your sight. You’re just a big fish in a little pond, and if you ever leave this fucking village, you’re going to have a nasty surprise when you realise that you can’t always be the centre of attention. And as for George, don’t kid yourself that he actually likes you. He knows you far too well for that.”

Emma could feel her eyes welling up and willed herself not to cry. She gripped the handle of the broom and felt her chest tighten.

“Is it love?” Elton simpered, a sarcastic expression of happiness on his face “Are you both just so in love, that nothing can get in the way? What you’re forgetting is that George Knightley’s world is a whole lot fucking bigger than yours. He’s left the village, he has real friends, he’s actually slept with people instead of being a frigid little kid. What have you done?”

“I –“

“Nothing. So,” Elton leaned in towards her; Emma felt too shocked and terrified to move away as he hissed at her. “I hope you’re both super happy together.”

“Why are you saying this?” Emma could feel the tears on her face. “You can’t mean all of this if you actually liked me.”

“Of course I fucking like you!” He spat. “I like you so much it makes me angry that you can’t see it, that you can’t let yourself be happy with me.”

“How could I ever be happy with someone who calls me frigid, makes me feel so small? I don’t understand your logic, Elton.”

He shook his head and smiled ironically. Then, just as he was about to open his mouth again, the bell above the door rang out. Both Emma and Elton turned to see Robert Martin stood awkwardly in the door. Emma quickly turned away and wiped her eyes.

“Hi.” Robert sounded suspicious. Emma heard Elton grunt out a response, before Robert spoke again. “Emma, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m –“

“She’s fine.” Elton said shortly. Emma turned to see him push past Robert and enter the café. Emma took what was supposed to be a deep, steadying breath – but it turned into a sort of broken sob. Before Robert could say anything, she wiped her face and tried to smile.

“I’m fine, I’m okay. I’m honestly fine, it’s fine. It’s fine.”

“Sounds like it’s fine.”

Emma gave a watery laugh at Robert’s deadpan delivery. He shifted from foot to foot, clutching his huge bag tighter. “Look, Woodhouse, for the record. I think Elton’s a dick. Everyone else does, too, so whatever he said to you, try not to listen.”

Emma smiled.

“And, look, if you don’t want to serve them for the rest of your shift, I can always go and carry him out. I’m probably taller than him and his girlfriend put together.”

“No, it’s okay.” Emma wiped her eyes again and took a breath that thankfully didn’t turn into a sob. “They won’t stay for long. Thank you, Rob.”

He nodded awkwardly and began walking away, before Emma remembered.

“Rob!” She called after him.

“Yeah?”

“Enjoy your drink with Harriet.”

He smiled broadly. “I’m sure you’ll hear all about it from her tomorrow.”

Emma watched him lope away, before quickly glancing into the shop. She could see Elton and August waiting for their coffees; Elton was pointedly looking away from his girlfriend, whilst she seemed to be talking very quickly and very angrily into his ear.

Maybe she could carry on sweeping for a bit. Perhaps the windows needed a quick clean.

Emma’s mood was suddenly elevated when her phone began ringing and a picture of George filled the small screen. Without even realising straight away, she smiled.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” George’s voice was so wonderfully familiar that Emma felt most of the residual upset from Elton fall out of her in a sigh. “How’s work?”

“Um…” Emma looked back inside. Elton was now arguing back at Augusta; poor Miss Bates was watching them anxiously from behind the counter. “Eventful. I’ll tell you later. Oh, um. If I see you later?”

“That’s what I was calling about. My lectures have just finished, I was thinking, if you like, I could go to the shop and make dinner for you and your dad?”

Emma gripped the phone tighter to her face and smiled, shutting her eyes. “That sounds lovely.”

“And maybe… we could tell your dad?”

This was less inviting. “Look, George. I want to tell him at some point, but I just don’t want him to assume that now we’re… together, I’m going to up and leave him straight away.” She paused. “We are together, right?”

“I want us to be. Do you?”

“Of course.”

“This is… different. To other relationships, I mean. Usually there’s the getting-to-know you period for a long time before anything’s official, but…”

“We’ve had eleven years to get to know each other.” Before George could respond, Emma cut in again. “George, I don’t want to do this I’m just another… notch on your metaphorical bedpost. I don’t think I am, but I need to be sure. This is a big step for us.”

He didn’t reply for a moment, and all Emma could hear was the freezing wind whistling in her ear.

“Why would you even think that?”

“I don’t, I just –“

“Emma.” George’s voice was fierce. “I love you. I love you so much, and I hate myself that it’s taken me so long to realise it. Is that enough for you?”

Once again, Emma had to wipe her eyes. It was just the wind making her eyes water, surely? “Yes. That’s enough. I love you too.”

A quiet sigh of relief; Emma almost giggled. “So, not to sound like a twelve-year-old, but will you be my boyfriend?”

“Your…”

“Girlfriend!” Emma heard him curse quietly down the phone and finally let herself burst out laughing. “I mean girlfriend, God damnit.”

“Yes, George, I will be your boyfriend, as long as you’ll be my girlfriend.”

He groaned, then laughed. “Of course I’ll be your girlfriend, Emma.”

“I’m so glad.”

What Emma didn’t realise was that whilst she was so happily distracted on the phone to George, Elton and August walked out of the shop and straight past her. Emma didn’t even notice them until she saw them shutting the Church doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey friends!
> 
> sorry about the lack of updates - as i mentioned before, i've been ill; often, physical illness can take a toll on your mental health, and i've found that whilst i would have loved to spend my time lying in bed updating this story, i've had terrible writer's block due to my poor mentality. however, i am feeling much better now and finally got around to updating.
> 
> side note: fuck elton, he's the worst
> 
> love to all of you, as always any kudos/comments are appreciated - i love reading all the lovely comments and replying to them! <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Christmas Eve**

“Let us pray.”

Emma dutifully bowed her head, shutting her eyes and listening to the monotonous drone of the vicar. The Church was warm and stuffy with all the bodies crammed in at once. Somewhere in one of the back pews, a baby was grizzling continuously.

“ _Our Father, who art in Heaven…_ ”

Emma opened one eye and raised her head slightly to look around subtly. The tiny Church did look quite spectacular – Elton’s kiddie club had outdone themselves with the streamers and baubles and tinsel. The tree stood proudly behind the vicar looked fantastic too, covered from head to toe in decorations and sparkles, the star complete with a cross in the middle, that was used every Christmas, in pride of place at the top.

“ _Hallowed be thy name…_ ”

Miss Bates was sat in the pew just across the aisle from Emma, her head bowed and her lips moving fervently in time with the prayer. Next to her was Jane Fairfax, looking hot and bothered but very pretty with her hands pressed together in her lap. Frank sat next to her – he wasn’t bothering to bow his head at all, and was not-so-subtly trying to dig his phone out of his back pocket – with whom Emma assumed were his parents on his other side. It seemed they had met Jane, then.

“ _Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…_ ”

Harriet and her mum were sat a few rows in front – Emma could see their matching curly hair sticking out. Sitting with his head about a foot higher than Harriet’s was Robert Martin; Emma smiled to herself.

“ _On earth as it is in Heaven…_ ”

Emma shut her eyes again, but quickly opened them when she felt a large hand slide its fingers between hers. She turned her head to look up at George.

“You okay?”

Emma smiled at her boyfriend and whispered back. “Yeah. Just hot.”

“I know, it’s roasting in here.” George slowly stroked a thumb over the back of Emma’s hand as he spoke. “Your dad seems to be happy, though. Not a hint of a draft or chill in the place.”

They both looked at Mr. Woodhouse, who was sat on George’s other side. He wasn’t saying the Lord’s prayer but seemed perfectly content to sit and look at the stained-glass windows, twiddling his thumbs. He had been miserable during the walk to the Church, traipsing through the snow with his back hunched, bundled up to his ears in a scarf and coat that Emma had insisted he put on. But, once Emma had found them a pew that was directly under a heater, he had perked up and seemed quite comfortable, despite the rest of his family sweating all the way through the carol service.

“It’s a Christmas miracle that the kids haven’t started a riot, as well.” Emma observed. Isabella was sat next to her father, her eyes shut and head bent, with the three eldest Knightley children sat along from her, who were all behaving rather marvellously. Emma made a mental note to make them one of her special hot chocolates when they returned to the cottage as a reward. John was already back there with the twins – the only time he would spend time with the kids, Isabella had bitterly observed on the walk down to the Church, was when it entailed avoiding something else he didn’t want to do. She had stormed ahead to walk with Mr. Woodhouse, leaving George and Emma to tramp through the thin layer of snow with the kids, Little John on George’s shoulders whilst Henry and Bella’s gloved hands kept tight hold of Emma’s.

“Do you know what else is a Christmas miracle?” George whispered.

“What?”

“You.”

Emma blushed. “Don’t be so cheesy.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

Emma lay her head on George’s shoulder and shut her eyes to listen to the rest of the prayer, placing her other hand on top of their intertwined ones. She felt him kiss the top of her head and smiled to herself.

As the prayer went on (the vicar seemed determined to stretch it out for as long as possible), Emma reflected on the last few months. When she had given Isabella one of their rare calls a few days after her and George became official (and finally managed to get a word in edge-ways), Emma had confessed the relationship. As distant as Emma felt from Isabella at times, she was still her sister and she loved her. Isabella, however, had been derisive – something along the lines of “he’s a Knightley, he’s secretly a bad egg”, and “you’ve really rushed into this, and you know how that ended up for me”. After half an hour of agreeing with her sister that no, she wasn’t planning on having five children, Emma finally managed to convince Isabella that everything was okay. She had to acknowledge that everything had moved rather quickly – after all, George had asked Emma to be his “boyfriend” only a day after everything had bubbled to the surface – but she also made it very clear that she had never been more sure about anything in her life.

As Emma reminisced on that particular phone call, she felt George squeeze her hand, and she snuggled her body in closer to his.

“ _For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever_. Amen.”

“Amen.”

Emma loved Christmas. The cold, crisp weather, the decorations, the songs, the merriment. She loved the feeling of being a little kid again, going to bed early with the excitement of what was to come on Christmas Day – even though Emma had been buying her own presents with her dad’s money and wrapping them herself since she was ten, the excitement and novelty stayed.

George was not so convinced.

“The build-up to Christmas is always better than the actual day.” Emma linked her arm through his and rolled her eyes as he talked; after a quick whip-around, saying hello to the community who had all piled into the Church, Mr. Woodhouse had insisted on leaving, and so the little party were shuffling outside into the cold, opting to walk the shorter way home. “And even then, the build-up isn’t that good. I don’t like turkey, every Christmas song makes my head hurt, and I hate present shopping with a passion.” Emma knew that much; she had dragged George into town at the beginning of December, much to his chagrin, to accompany her whilst she marched in and out of shops, stocking up her gifts.

“You’re just a big old Grinch, do you know that?” Emma tightened her grip on George’s arm as they stepped over a particularly slippery bit of ice. “It’s the best time of the year.”

He grinned; adorably, the tip of his nose had gone red in the cold. “Well, that’s simply not true.”

“That isn’t what Andy Williams says!” Emma said brightly. Before George could retort, she leaned up and pecked him on the lips, then unhooked her arm from his and turned around. The three kids were walking slightly behind with Isabella and Mr. Woodhouse, bundled up to their ears with scarves and big coats. “Who fancies a Christmas song?” Emma bent down to pick up Henry, the smallest, and whirled him around the snow as he screamed in hysterical excitement. She began singing and running ahead, the two other kids following her and singing along to the lyrics they knew.

“ _It’s the most wonderful time, of the year_!” Emma felt her face grow numb as she danced through the snow with her nephews and niece, knowing that she probably looked silly but unable to find it within herself to care. It was Christmas Eve, the snow was falling thicker and faster by the minute, the lights were bright and shining all over the village, and she was with her family – Emma was happy.

“Children, children! Be careful,” Isabella called in her strained, worried voice from where she was walking with Mr. Woodhouse. “Don’t slip and fall, you’ll catch your death.”

“They’re fine, Isa, we’re just having fun!” Emma spun Bella around as the little girl giggled breathlessly, her cheeks growing pink in the cold, the two boys clamouring for attention from their aunt.

Bella was suddenly lifted off the ground, and Emma looked up to see George settling his niece on his broad shoulders. He smiled and carried on walking; Emma could hear him singing along as he went and was sure she felt her heart literally swell with love. She held Little John and Henry’s gloved hands in hers and continued tramping through the snow, still singing.

The house was blissfully warm when they all arrived back, and the sight that greeted Emma when she stepped into the living room was nothing short of angelic; John was sat in the big, squashy armchair by the fireplace, a twin asleep in each arm, his own eyes shut. Emma leaned against the doorframe for a moment, simply watching the peaceful scene.

Then the front door slammed, and John jolted awake. He looked around in confusion, then his gaze landed on Emma. His face screwed up into an ugly, irritated expression and he stood up, still holding the twins. “You could’ve been a bit quieter.”

Emma frowned. “It wasn’t me who shut the door.”

“No, it was probably my wife.” John grumbled the word ‘wife’ as if he were describing some dog muck on his shoe. Emma felt her face heat up in anger – she marched over to her brother-in-law and took one of the twins, still sleeping off him, gently rocking the baby in her arms. Isabella barely spared her husband a glance as she rushed her father into the living room, settling him down in the armchair in front of the fire that John had deserted. Emma stayed long enough to check that Mr. Woodhouse was suitably warm and settled, a baby in his lap, before leaving to find George. John was bound to make any evening, even the night before Christmas, unbearable.

She found George in the kitchen with the kids; they were all sat, legs swinging, on the kitchen counter, as their uncle helped them take off the various gloves and hats and scarves that Isabella had wrapped them in like mummies.

“So, do you think you’ve all been good this year?”

Emma smiled as she listened to him talk about Santa with them; the kids were all sleeping in Emma’s bedroom (in the same arrangement as the last time the Knightley’s stopped over) and had already hung their little Christmas stockings up on the wall. The babies had a sock each, in which Isabella was going to put two new dummies.

“How will Father Christmas find us if we’re at Grandad’s house?” Bella sucked her thumb as she spoke to George, so her voice was muffled. Her big blue eyes were round and anxious in her plump face. Emma watched George gently remove Bella’s thumb from her mouth and lean in close.

“Because he’s got magic powers. He knows where you are because all of his little elves told him that you’ve come to see Grandad and Emma this Christmas.”

“Will he know where you are?” Henry chimed in, struggling to unwind the knitted scarf from around his neck.

Emma stepped in and unravelled the garment. “Of course! He knows that your Uncle George and I are just around the corner, and we’ll be back in the morning.”

“So you’ll get your presents?”

“If we’ve been good.” Emma grinned at her nephew, ruffling his hair. She could feel George’s eyes on her.

“Have you been good?” Bella asked innocently.

“I think so,” Emma replied. “I think we’ve all been good, and we’ll all get the presents we want.” She clapped her hands together briskly. “Now, why don’t you three all run upstairs and get into your pyjamas, and I’ll make you a special hot chocolate each before we watch the film. Sound good?”

“Yeah!” All three children cried out happily and ran off upstairs as soon as George lifted them separately off the counter. Emma smiled and shook her head as she heard them all stomping up the stairs.

“You’re so good with them.” Emma turned at the sound of George’s voice. He was leaning back against the island counter, watching her curiously. She blushed.

“So are you. They love you.”

“If only their dad wasn’t such a wanker.”

“Now, now,” Emma said playfully, taking a step towards him. “It’s Christmas. No harsh words.”

“Okay, he’s a wanker with a festive ribbon on top.” Emma rolled her eyes and stepped in even closer, reaching out her hands to rest on George’s hips. He smirked down at her, one eyebrow raised.

“Do you think you’ve been good this year, Emma?” There was a note of challenge in his voice, and suddenly the kitchen seemed very quiet and empty.

“I don’t know,” Emma replied, a smirk of her own playing about her lips. “Do you think I deserve any presents this year? Or have I been too naughty?”

George brought his head down as he moved his body closer to Emma’s, his hands on her waist, and she felt his lips press just under her ear. “I think you’ve been entirely too naughty, so maybe we should… discuss that, when we return to mine after the film.”

The breath caught in Emma’s throat as George’s teeth grazed her neck, and she moved her hands up to rub over his firm back. “Oh yeah?” she replied in a breathy whisper as George continued his ministrations. “What are you going to –“

“Ahem.”

Like a bullet had been shot, George jumped about a mile in the air and sprang apart from Emma. Emma turned, flustered, to see Isabella stood in the doorway, her arms folded and eyebrows raised. Emma saw George blush deeply and guessed that her own face wasn’t too pale either.

“This looks cosy.” Isabella said briskly, breezing past the guilty couple. George made a face at Emma, a sort of ‘I-don’t-want-to-be-here-so-I’ll-leave-you-to-deal-with-this-awkwardness’ look, and promptly left the kitchen. Emma rolled her eyes and watched her older sister fuss around the kitchen looking for mugs.

“Mugs are in the – “

“Yes, I know.” Isabella snapped, her back to Emma. “I did grow up here, if you recall.”

“Some things have changed.”

Isabella turned, her eyebrows raised so high they looked like they might become one with her hairline. “Clearly.” This terse comment was accompanied by a significant look towards the direction of the living room. Emma huffed out a sigh.

“Don’t act like I didn’t tell you, Bella, I called you as soon as I could.”

“I know that!” Isabella snapped again, turning back around to fill the kettle. “I know. I just don’t appreciate seeing you two… flaunting your happiness at every corner I turn, okay?”

Emma wanted to fight with her sister for saying that. She wanted to be childish and shove her, probably earning a slap or a hair pull in return, just like when they were little. But she saw the sag of Isabella’s shoulders, heard the weariness in her voice, and knew what it was about.

“Is it that bad with John?”

Isabella’s head dropped forward and her back heaved as she took a deep breath; Emma wanted to give her a hug, or even just rub her back soothingly, but she knew her sister – Isabella hated any sort of physical contact for too long. So, Emma simply stood in the warm kitchen and waited for her sister to speak. Eventually, Isabella turned around. She wasn’t crying, but her dark eyes had a certain shimmery quality to them.

“We don’t love each other anymore. I mean, we can hardly stand each other.”

“So leave him!” Emma took a step towards her sister, but Isabella stepped back and made a face.

“Keep your bloody voice down, Emma.” She took a deep breath. “It isn’t as simple as that, and you know it. He’s the father of my children. It’s Christmas, for God’s sake, plus you’re dating his fucking brother!”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Are you being dim deliberately?” Isabella lowered her voice, her eyes fixed on the door as she continued speaking. “If you and George are as serious as you claim to be, despite the fact that you’ve only been together for three months, and you stay together and live in the village, how could I ever come back to visit you and be in the same room as him? If I left John but still had to see George on a semi-regular basis, don’t you think that would be slightly fucked up?”

“What the hell does that mean, as serious as we ‘claim’ to be?” Emma replied angrily. “I don’t know why you’re taking this out on me, just because you’re unhappy it doesn’t mean I have to be as well.”

“Have you even talked about what’s going to happen when George finishes his postgraduate?” Isabella’s voice had taken on a superior, sneering tone, that made Emma want to scream. But she couldn’t deny that she had a point. “I mean, he’s got another year of it, right?”

“Eight months.”

“Whatever. He hasn’t exactly been the most dedicated full-time student, but what happens when the pressure really amps up? When the honeymoon period is over between you two, and things get mundane, and George realises that maybe he should put some effort into this degree? And then, what will he do with it afterwards? Stay in the village, and lecture in the local university? That doesn’t sound likely.”

For a moment, Emma was lost for words. Then the anger reared its ugly head and pushed its way through her mouth. “How is this any of your fucking business, Isabella? Okay, so we haven’t talked about the future much. So what? I’m happy, he’s happy, isn’t that what matters?”

Isabella shook her head, suddenly looking so sad and worn-out that Emma wanted to cry. “I’m sorry, Em. I’m sorry. It all just sounds horribly familiar.”

After a second of hesitation, Emma stepped over to her sister and gave her a tentative hug; for a moment, it was like hugging a statue. Then Isabella relaxed and hugged her sister back.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Emma whispered into her sister’s hair. “Let’s just forget about this until next year. Okay?”

“Okay, Em.”

“Are you two coming in?” George’s voice sounded out from the living room. “The film’s about to start.”

Emma helped her sister with the hot drinks and carried them through; the living room was a cosy scene, the lights soft and yellow, casting a golden glow around the room. The Christmas tree, which the children and Mr. Woodhouse had decorated with much enthusiasm some weeks before, stood pride of place next to the television, which was paused on the opening shot of _It’s A Wonderful Life_ – watching that particular film was a beloved family tradition from before Mrs. Woodhouse had passed. Every Christmas Eve without fail, Emma would watch it, whether it was just her and her father, or the extended Knightleys included. The story of George Bailey and his guardian angel never failed to make her cry – she hoped that it might melt the anti-Christmas ice around George’s heart.

He looked happy enough, stretching his arm out to allow Emma to snuggle into him after she had handed around the drinks. Mr. Woodhouse was sat in his usual armchair, Henry and Bella leant against his legs on cushions. Little John was sat in between his mother and father on the larger sofa – Emma noticed that they were pointedly looking away from each other. Neither of the twins were in the room; Emma figured that John must have finally pulled his finger out of his lazy arse and put them to bed. The scene was cosy and warm – as long as the pretences were kept up. Emma sighed and nestled her head into George’s chest, smiling as he put his arm around her shoulders. As the prayers for George Bailey started with the angelic music in the background, Emma looked up at her boyfriend, his face illuminated with the black and white light from the television.

“Aren’t you meant to be watching that George, not me?” George whispered, nodding at the screen.

“I’m just thinking about how much you’re going to cry by the end of this film,” Emma whispered back. “I still can’t believe you’ve never seen it.”

“And I will continue not to see it if you keep talking, chatterbox.” George kissed the top of Emma’s head after he spoke. “Now be good or you won’t get your presents from Santa.”

As the film began properly, Emma took one more look at George. He was a good man, just like George Bailey. She tried to imagine what her life would be like without him, if he had never existed, and found that she couldn’t.

Tonight wasn’t the right time to talk about it. Not on Christmas Eve.

**New Year’s Eve**

“I feel like I haven’t seen you for ages!”

Emma had to shout for her companion to hear her; the music emanating from the stage was so loud that she could hardly hear herself think. Harriet leaned in, wobbling slightly and shouted back: “Me too! I’ve missed you so much!”

“I’ve missed you too!” In a fit of drunken companionship and genuine love for her friend, Emma gave Harriet a sloppy and clumsy hug, spilling half of her drink in the process. “The band are really good!”

Harriet grinned, her face flashing different colours in the strobe lighting of the venue. “I know! They’ve been practicing so hard, Bobby’s hardly stopped!”

They both peered through the pulsating crowd towards the stage; they were back at The Brunswick. The bar had opened specially for New Year’s Eve, with plenty of half price drinks and revelry all round. Robert’s band were playing a New Year set, which didn’t sound any different to their usual music, but was apparently a very different style for them, according to Harriet. It was a quarter to twelve, and Emma was well on her way to being very drunk.

“How’s it all going with Bobby, anyway?” Emma panted as her and Harriet finally fought their way to the bar. “I saw you two together on Christmas Eve.”

“Oh,” Harriet blushed a deeper shade of pink than she already was from all the sweaty dancing. “It’s going well. Really well. He’s just… he’s lovely. My mum adores him. I haven’t met his family yet, but I think it’ll be soon.”

She was grinning like a loon, and Emma couldn’t help but smile too. “That’s great, Harriet. Really, really great.”

Just as Harriet opened her mouth to reply, the crashing music came to an abrupt stop and was met by an immediate chorus of cheers and claps. Harriet whistled and clapped, jumping up and down, trying to catch her boyfriend’s eye. Emma saw him take a long swig from his water bottle and wipe his forehead, the lights illuminating the sweat dripping off his head and torso. Harriet turned back around, beaming. “I’ll come and find you at midnight, Em!”

“Yeah, okay.”

She watched Harriet weave through the crowd again towards the stage as the speakers began blasting some Lizzo song that Emma vaguely knew. The bar was packed, decked out with streamers and balloons and lights. The scent of sweat and alcohol was heavy; Emma sat in a barstool and watched the scenes unfold around her for only a few seconds before she felt someone’s hands on her waist.

“What’s a beautiful girl like you doing in a place like this?”

The familiar voice made her smile, and Emma turned in her seat to see George’s stood in front of her. His hair was getting too long again, Emma noted silently – but as he leaned down to kiss her and she was able to run her fingers through the curly locks, Emma realised that maybe she didn’t mind after all.

“That’s a nice greeting,” Emma leant her face into the familiar palm that caressed her cheek. “You were only gone for ten minutes.”

“Still, the men’s bathroom is a scary place.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Emma sipped her drink and kept her eyes locked onto George’s. He licked his lips.

“Do you want to dance?”

Emma smiled and put her drink down, daintily hopping down from the stool and taking George’s hand. “Thought you’d never ask.”  
  


The dancefloor was packed, but Emma manged to pull them both to a spot near the middle. She didn’t recognise the song playing, but it was slow and beautiful, so she wrapped her arms around George’s neck and swayed in time. He was an awkward dancer, there was no doubt about it – something that Emma had made fun of him for many times – but he managed to keep some semblance of rhythm as he gripped Emma’s waist and moved with her.

“This is our first New Year’s Eve together.” George was so close to Emma that he didn’t need to shout.

“That isn’t strictly true,” Emma replied, stroking the back of his neck gently. “Remember, after Mum died?”

“Oh, shit, yeah. That wasn’t really a celebration, though.”

It surely hadn’t been. Mrs. Woodhouse had died in the winter, just at the end of a long, gruelling November that made the subsequent December seem even colder and less colourful than usual. Mr. Woodhouse had let the cottage fall into disarray for a while; Christmas Day had been miserable, with Isabella tearfully handing young Emma the cheap presents she had hastily wrapped the night before, whilst Mr. Woodhouse stayed in bed. On the last day of December, John and Isabella had taken Emma to the Knightley’s house. Emma remembered feeling annoyed that she hadn’t had any good Christmas presents, and angry that she couldn’t stay up until midnight for one of her parent’s New Year’s Eve parties, sipping secretly from her mother’s champagne glass and chasing George around the house. Then the guilt had set in, and she had put it from her mind. When Isabella had decided that it was time to come home, Emma walked into a transformed cottage – sure, the cabinets and shelves were still dusty, the recycling bin was spilling over and there were dishes in the sink – but the living room was tidy and cosy, with snacks on the coffee table and a few little balloons floating up to the ceiling. George and his mother had been stood, waiting anxiously by the drab Christmas tree that was still up. And, best of all, Mr. Woodhouse, still frail and morose, was sat in his armchair, smiling sadly at his two daughters.

Emma looked up at George in the crowd. He still had some of those boyish looks left over from his teenage years – he had only been thirteen when he and his mother organised a New Year’s celebration of crappy films and nice food, all squashed into the Woodhouse living room. His kindness had lasted through all the years that Emma had known him.

“I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for that.”

“For what?”

“That New Year’s Eve. In our living room.”

“Oh,” George looked away briefly, and Emma thought she saw the hint of a blush under all the lights. “It was, what, eleven years ago? And it was mostly Mum’s idea, anyway, so –“

To stop him taking, Emma pulled George down to her and captured his lips in a kiss. She shut her eyes, breathing in his familiar scent, relishing the feeling of his hands flexing around her waist as he deepened the embrace.

“Ten seconds!”

The shout from the bar manager who was stood onstage prompted the couple to break apart.

“Ten… nine…”

George’s lips were slightly wet and parted as he gazed down at Emma.

“Eight… seven…”

He smiled. Emma brought up her hands and cupped his face.

“Six… five… four…”

She rubbed her thumbs over his cheekbones, mirroring the action he was so fond of. George leaned his cheek into her palm.

“Three… two…”

“I love you.” Emma whispered, and George probably couldn’t even hear her voice over the din of the entire bar counting down to midnight, but his eyes flickered down to her mouth.

“One!”

The entire crowd erupted into cries of “Happy New Year!”, cheers and shouts and laughter filling the bar, making Emma’s head spin. She was jostled by someone behind her, felt a stranger grab her arm and begin swinging her hand as the loud, drunken rendition of _Auld Lang Syne_ began. She threw back her head and laughed, singing along. George grabbed her other hand and abruptly kissed her, laughing into her mouth. A streamer fell on Emma’s head, wrapping itself in her head, as balloons fell from the concealed net on the ceiling. George grinned and brought Emma’s hand to his lips, before shouting over the drunken singing:

“I love you too!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi friends!
> 
> i hope you're all happy and healthy and doing well <3
> 
> little surprise: i was going to try and wrap this story up in 15 chapters, as you probably noticed (i changed the number of chapters a few weeks ago) BUUUUT i don't think i could do it justice. i have a clear structure and idea for the ending, and it just wouldn't have fit into only two remaining chapters. so, surprise! there is more to come.
> 
> once again, all comments/kudos are greatly appreciated 
> 
> p.s. did i put a christmas chapter because i want it to be christmas already? yes. did i do the same in my pride & prejudice fic? yes. am i writing my own family's christmas traditions into the story? yes. do i plan to write more fics with christmas settings? absolutely.
> 
> p.p.s. i don’t know if any of you have seen the show ‘fleabag’, but i always imagine this story’s version of isabella just like claire in the show - neurotic and uptight and a bit mental


	15. Chapter 15

Emma was bored. Unequivocally, ridiculously bored.

Usually, when Emma complained about the café being empty, there were still a couple of grannies sat around, picking at a carrot cake or sipping a latte. Emma took one more futile, cursory glance around the shop. Not a single customer, and the lack of noise from the kitchen told her that the staff had stopped cooking anything and were probably sat around discussing when they could leave.

The boredom and sour mood that Emma found herself in on this day in mid-January had been completely expected but was nonetheless very unwelcome. In the awkward time between Christmas and the beginning of Spring, when time slowed down and the snow turned to grey sludge, Emma always found that her mood plummeted. The end of the Christmas season, going back to work, the kids leaving again – it was all so depressing. Really, the only good thing to come from the post-Christmas time was John Knightley leaving, which allowed Emma and her father to breathe normally again. Although, Emma would have much rather seen him driving off alone, his face set and stony, than have to watch her harried sister herd the kids into the car whilst her useless husband sat at the wheel, sighing. Emma, Mr. Woodhouse and George had stood at the door and waved them off on Boxing Day; as soon as they were out of sight, George had whistled and walked back into the cottage, and Mr. Woodhouse had given his daughter the raised eyebrow that meant ‘thank God that’s over’.

And New Year’s Eve had been fun, Emma thought to herself. Bobby’s band were fantastic, she reunited with Harriet, George had had a good time. She had got far too drunk, as George had delighted in telling her the morning after.

_“_ _Morning, sleeping beauty.” Emma cracked an eye open and was greeted by the sight of George sat next to her on the bed, grinning down at her. She groaned and rolled onto her front, hiding her face in the pillow._

_“What time is it?”_

_“Almost noon. Here,” George nudged her arm, and Emma rolled back over to see him holding out a mug of steaming coffee. “Get this down you.” She gratefully took it, but even sitting up made her head spin. George carried on talking as Emma gulped the hot liquid._

_“Do you remember anything past midnight last night?” George absentmindedly rubbed Emma’s bare leg as he spoke._

_“Not really,” Emma grimaced. “How did we get home?”_

_“Um,” George grinned again. Oh, shit, Emma thought._

_“Was I super embarrassing?”_

_“You, um… I had to carry you to the car.”_

_Emma’s eyes widened – and then, suddenly, images began flooding back. Yes, she now remembered the feeling of flying with the cold air whipping her face, with two strong arms around her, and then suddenly being lowered onto what felt like a soft cloud. And now here she was._

_“Jesus Christ, I’m sorry, George.”_

_“Hey, don’t apologise. It was funny, and you obviously had a good time.” Then he smiled again, cheekily. “You know, you spent a lot of time trying to seduce me.”_

_“What?”_

_“When I was trying to get you in the car, when I was driving, when I was taking your shoes and makeup off. You kept, like… trying to kiss me.”_

_“Oh, my God.” Emma threw herself back onto the pillows and shut her eyes against the pounding headache that was building. “That’s so embarrassing.”_

_“I tucked you into bed, and you said something about… ravishing, I think? Something about how you were going to ravish me, and how sexy I am, and then when I came back into my bedroom you were dead to the world.”_

Emma shook her head as she remembered that morning. She and George had spent practically the whole day in bed, George making sure she drank plenty of water and took enough painkillers. Then Emma had struggled through the village in the evening, her head down, until she returned to the cottage, feeling like a naughty teenager. Mr. Woodhouse had simply remarked that her hair looked a bit tangled and asked if Harriet was “still with the tall lad”.

She sipped her coffee morosely and watched yet another person walk past without giving the café a glance. Business was always slow in the new year, but this was particularly bad. Emma sighed and pulled out her phone, leaning over the counter and beginning yet another mindless scroll through her Twitter feed. It seemed that she was always looking for an excuse to do nothing during her shifts, but when she actually had nothing to do, she resented the boredom.

Suddenly, the bell above the door rang. Emma dropped her phone and looked up hopefully. George rubbed his practically blue hands together as he stepped into the shop.

“Oh,” Emma stopped smiling. “Hey.”

“You know, I don’t expect to be serenaded every time I see you, but it would be nice to be greeted with some enthusiasm.” George’s tone was sarcastic as he spoke with a raised eyebrow, joining Emma behind the counter.

“Sorry, sorry.” Emma gave her boyfriend a quick kiss on the cheek and mentally scolded herself for sounding so miserable. “You’re my first customer.”

George looked around the café as if he had only just noticed it was empty. They both glanced at the clock above the door. It was almost four. “Oh. Shit.” He peered around to the direction of the kitchen. “Are the kitchen staff here?”

“Yeah, but there’s literally nothing for them to do.”

George turned back, his brow furrowed, and ran a hand through his hair; Emma had noticed a while ago that he did this when he was thinking hard. “Can’t you just shut?”

“I don’t own the café, George.”

“Ask Bates, then.”

“No, she’d just get worried.”

George laughed lightly. “Em, she needs to be worried at this point. The café’s been losing business for the past year, she’s running it into the ground.”

Emma narrowed her eyes; George’s tone, condescending and uptight, was making her hackles rise. “That’s not fair. We’re just understaffed ever since you left.”

George shook his head. “Right, so you’re blaming me for this, just because I got a new job and started to actually focus on my work?”

“No, I didn’t say I blamed you!” Emma raised her voice when it looked like George might speak over her, taking a step towards him. “It isn’t your fault.”

“Yes, you’re right.” George said shortly. “It’s hers.”

George was right, of course he was. Emma knew he was, as usual, painfully correct. But, as much as Miss Bates was an annoyance and a frankly terrible manager, talking badly about her left a sour taste in Emma’s mouth.

“And are you just going to stay working here until there’s absolutely no business left at all?” George persisted, his voice flat. “You’ve worked here since you were, what, sixteen? Isn’t it time to… move on?”

Emma didn’t reply.

“Move out, even?”

“Is this about you and me again?”

Emma refused to look away from George as she spoke, her voice quieter. George crossed his arms in a motion that looked almost self-conscious. “I mean, I guess.”

“You know I can’t leave Dad.” The first few smatterings of a rain storm started hitting the windows; the sky was grey from where Emma could see it behind George’s head. There would definitely be no customers now.

“You keep saying that, Emma, but I don’t get why not. He isn’t senile, for God’ sake, he’s pretty self-sufficient.”

“Since when do you know my father better than I do?”

“I’m not saying that, but I have known him for almost twelve years, now, and I know that he would be capable of living alone.”

“He might be capable, but do you not think he might be lonely?” Emma twisted her hands together and saw George’s gaze briefly flicker down to watch them. “You know what he was like when Mum died.”

_“Dad?”_

_The house was eerily quiet as Emma tiptoed downstairs. It was late; she could hardly see her hands in front of her face, resorting to feeling her way down the stair banister. The only light came from the living room, filtering out through the ajar door. Emma pushed it open the rest of the way._

_The room looked empty; it was dimly lit, but Emma could see all of the empty mugs and plates littering the coffee table and counters. A tuft of greying hair was visible over the top of the high-backed armchair. Emma crept around the chair to see her father, his head tilted forward slightly, dozing in front of the unlit fire. An empty glass was held precariously in his hand. As slowly and gently as possible, Emma lifted the glass from his fingers. When he spoke, she jumped._

_“Emma?” Mr. Woodhouse squinted at her; his eyes were slightly unfocused, and his voice was hoarse. “What are you doing up?”_

_“I had a nightmare.” Emma whispered. She had woken up sweaty and sticky and, without thinking, had ran into her parents’ room, looking for her mother to snuggle up with. She did it so often that Isabella had kept calling her stupid for forgetting so easily – Emma couldn’t help it._

_“Come here, darling.” Mr. Woodhouse stretched his arms out feebly and allowed his daughter to climb onto his lap. Emma pushed her head under his chin and shut her eyes, breathing in his familiar scent of pine and firewood._

_“Don’t leave me, Emma.” She heard him mumble into her hair. “Don’t ever leave me.”_

George sighed and looked away. “I know. I know, Em. I’m sorry, I just…” He paused, drumming his fingers restlessly on the countertop. “Remember that night in the car, when I picked you up from the pub?”

“How could I forget?” The tension, the slight lean-in before Emma had scrambled out of the car. She remembered how red her cheeks had been in the mirror when she got through the front door.

“You told me you were worried that life had passed you by, but you were scared to leave the village.” Abruptly, George stepped forward and took both of Emma’s hands in his. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Em, imagine what we could do if we left!”

Emma shook her head, trying to make sense of everything George was saying. “George, I… you still have your Masters, and I have my job…”

“We can go after I finish! And you’ve already saved money, we can both keep saving and then just get out of here.”

“To go where?”

“Anywhere!” George was grinning almost maniacally, his eyes wide as he spoke faster. “Emma, all I want to do is make you happy, and if it truly came down to it, I would stay here in the village, with you. I would.” He took a deep breath and rubbed a thumb over her hand, like he so often did. “But I think we could both be happy somewhere else. We could travel and work and meet new people, it could be an adventure. For the two of us.”  
  


As Emma helplessly looked into the beautiful, open face of the man she loved, the logical part of her brain was screaming at her to back away and hide, to stay where she knew was safe. But her mouth seemingly opened of its own accord. “What if… if we were to leave, to travel…” She suddenly felt her eyes start to well up with tears. “What if you only like me in the village?” Even as she spoke, Emma wanted to take the stupid words back, but she couldn’t stop herself. “What if you don’t like me when we’re travelling? You’ve only ever known me in Highbury, we hardly spoke when you were at university and when you travelled on your own.”

George shook his head, looking incredulous. “Just because I’ve only known you in one place, it doesn’t mean I don’t know you.” He brought a hand up to stroke her face gently. “Where’s this coming from?”

“I just…” Emma sniffed, pointedly avoiding George’s gaze as she tried to blink away any tears that threatened to fall. “I get in my head sometimes, you know? About us. You could have anyone you wanted, and you chose the childish, selfish little girl who sticks her nose where it isn’t wanted.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. The rain was pouring outside, hitting the roof and windows violently. From the sounds coming from the kitchen, the few staff that were in had given up on waiting for orders and were sat around chatting. Emma looked down at her feet, then felt a hand under her chin, lifting her gaze.

“I’m sorry I ever called you those things, Em.” George’s voice was solemn, and he spoke unsmilingly. “The worst mistake I made was not realising sooner how I felt about you, because I was so wrapped up in criticising you.”

“But I can be so childish, and nosy, and you’re so… so grown-up, and, and, you’re so smart and kind, and –“

“Boring? Uptight? Critical?” He laughed slightly. “You don’t think I don’t worry about these things too? I’m constantly thinking about how serious I am compared to you, how you make everything fun and light, how much everyone loves you. I could never be like you in that respect, Emma.”

Emma smiled gently, not quite believing her boyfriend but not wanting to disagree.

“Em, the short time we’ve been together so far has been the best time of my life,” George continued, his voice slow and steady. “You’re my best friend and my girlfriend in one, nobody knows me better than you do. And I like how different we are. It’s never boring, right?”

“Right.”

“You’re it for me, Em. And… if staying in Highbury is what would really make you happy, then I’ll stay with you. But let’s not talk about it now, okay? I’ve still got until September to finish the degree. Let’s just…”

“Cross that bridge when we come to it.” Emma finished for him, finally meeting his gaze steadily. George smiled and squeezed her hand.

“Exactly. Now, are you going to tell the kitchen lot to go home? I think closing is the best option.”

So they closed the shop; as George stacked chairs, Emma rang Miss Bates, waving goodbye to the kitchen staff as she tried to get a word in to her manager. Then the pair walked back to the cottage, George’s coat over Emma’s head to stop her hair getting wet.

George cooked dinner, and they sat and ate with Mr. Woodhouse, and George asked him about the novel he was reading, and Emma twirled spaghetti around her fork and listened to them talk, and they set Mr. Woodhouse up in front of the fire, and they cleaned the kitchen, and they watched some television, and they went upstairs, and they had quiet sex in Emma’s bed, and they fell asleep.

And it was all completely fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey friends!
> 
> this was quite angsty oof
> 
> exciting news, it's my birthday in a week, and i'm moving out in two weeks! updates may be slightly slow due to all of this madness, but i'm only planning on a few more chapters anyway....
> 
> again, any comments/kudos are appreciated <3
> 
> love to you all!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: mention of blood and injury near the end of the chapter

George had been at least partly right about the café, it turned out. By the end of Spring, it became clear that, despite Emma’s best efforts (which included instructing George, Harriet and Robert to stick flyers and posters around the village advertising Hartfield), business was not going to pick up a huge amount. Whilst some revenue was still coming in from the old regulars and Church staff who popped across the road between services (Elton had not returned since his last visit with Augusta), the newest Starbucks was taking the village by storm. The construction workers renovating the abandoned shop over the last year had been nice enough, and most of them tipped well when they popped into Hartfield for a coffee or a sandwich, but Emma resented them nonetheless for working on the site that was destroying her job. She refused point blank to buy anything from the accursed Starbucks when it finally had its grand opening at the beginning of Summer, which proved to be no hardship for George – whilst Emma wouldn’t drink a Starbucks coffee out of sheer stubbornness and principle, George was very much a ‘stick it to the man’ type, who was always harping on about major corporations and their role in dastardly endeavours such as slave labour, and… was it deforestation? Something like that, Emma couldn’t quite remember.

“At least you’re getting some customers,” George had said doubtfully one warm afternoon after returning from a seminar, glancing around the shop. Mrs. Goddard waved at him from her corner table. “It’s better than it was at the start of the year.”

“I guess,” Emma grumbled, half-heartedly stirring her cold tea. “Bates was talking about hiring someone else.”

“Is she completely blind?” George asked incredulously. “Bates can barely afford you and Harriet, and she only works weekends now. And the kitchen staff are nearly obsolete!”

“I know.” Emma said miserably. She watched the only other customer, a harried-looking young mother with a pram, leave the café and step out into the sunshine. She had only ordered a small latte. “She’s actually coming in today. Bates, I mean. Wants to have a chat with me.”

George frowned thoughtfully. “About what?”

“Well, I hardly know, do I?”

George raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry, sorry.” Emma sighed. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just… frustrated.”

“I know, love.” Emma felt a zip of happiness shoot through her body at the pet name, then felt some of the tension in her head and shoulders abate when George leant down to kiss her forehead. “I need to go to work, but text me when you’ve spoken to Bates, okay?”

“Okay.” Before George could forget, Emma pressed the takeaway coffee she had made him into his hand. “Oh, I’m going for dinner with Harriet tonight, I forgot to say. If you’re at work, I’ll just head back to the cottage and see you tomorrow.”

“Cool. Good. Have fun.” George suddenly looked pensive; Emma knew this face, and knew that he had something to say, but if she asked what was wrong, he would get self-conscious and probably keep quiet. So she waited until he spoke again.

“About that…” George put the coffee down again. “I was thinking, now that, you know, we’re together, and we both stay at mine a lot, and, um, I already have a key for your dad’s place, maybe, maybe you’d like to get a key for my flat?”

Emma smiled and raised her eyebrows.

“Really?”

“Yeah, if you like. I mean,” he almost tripped over his words. “I mean, I would like. If you would. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be, uh, renting there. But, you know, for the time being. I think you should have a key as well.” Emma opened her mouth, but George suddenly started again; he never meant to interrupt her, but it was a nervous habit. “I know you wouldn’t want to move in because of your dad and, uh, it’s a small flat and, again, I don’t know how much longer… but, yeah. A key.”

“George,” Emma laughed lightly. “It’s okay, stop fretting. I’d love to get a key for your place.”

“You would?” His entire face seemed to light up from the inside as he let out a not-so-subtle breath of relief. “Okay, great. Brilliant. I’ll, uh, get you one cut tomorrow then!”

He gave Emma another kiss on the forehead, then on her cheek, then finally on her mouth. She smiled against his lips, then pushed him away gently. “Get out of here, you don’t want to be late.”

She watched him bounce out of the café, and waved at him through the window, before looking down at the counter and shaking her head. He’d forgotten his coffee.

Emma looked pensively down into her abandoned cup of tea. A key. It was only a key, a convenient way to enter her boyfriend’s tiny flat when he was at work or the university; Emma was already leaving half of her wardrobe there, anyway, so what difference would a key of her own make? It would actually make things easier and simpler for her, instead of having to wait in the pub until George’s shift finished, or spend days at his flat before going home.

But still – something about it made Emma nervous. George had said he didn’t know how much longer he would be renting in the village. So, was this key a way to appease Emma, to make her think that he was staying for longer than he intended? Or had he actually decided to settle down in Highbury once and for all? Even thinking the phrase ‘settle down’ left a bad taste in Emma’s mouth – leaving the village terrified her, so she tried not to think about it – but she was twenty-one now, was ‘settling down’ really the only option for her at this point?

“Bye, Emma, love!”

Emma was jolted out of her thoughts by Mrs. Goddard. She waved at the old lady and watched her leave the same way George had gone, hobbling and stooping slightly. Was that what her future looked like, living in the same cottage, with only a cat to go home to?

She shook her head. Abruptly, Emma picked up her mug of tea and poured the contents into the bin. It was cold – nobody was going to drink it now.  
  


After another hour of looking at her phone and redecorating the specials board for no reason (during which time two customers came in and promptly left when Emma said that their soup of the day was in fact not split-pea), Emma was distracted from pulling at the threads on her apron by the sound of footsteps behind her. Robert Martin, his big black gym bag slung over his shoulders, loped out of the kitchen.

“Hey, Em.”

“Rob. You off?”

“Yeah, need to hit the gym before I help Mum out with the packing.” Emma desperately racked her brain for a moment before remembering that his mother and father owned the tiny organic farm-food shop on the corner. It didn’t matter anyway, because Robert continued. “So, you’re off out with Harriet tonight, then?”

“Oh, yeah.” Emma leaned over the counter, examining her split ends as she spoke. Things with Robert had been so much more pleasant since the events of the year before, and she still felt grateful for how he spoke to her when Elton had flared up outside the shop. “We’re just going to that Italian place in town, it’ll be nice to catch up.”

Robert smiled and nodded, still retaining that air of slight awkwardness that Emma had always construed as rudeness. Just when Emma thought he might leave, her began talking again.

“I, um, was wondering if your dad was out of vegetables?”

Emma blinked. “I, uh…”

“Sorry, that sounded weird.” Robert grinned sheepishly. “My mum always liked your dad, and she wondered if you two wanted any fresh produce? It’s all from my uncle’s farm, just out of town. Free, of course.”

“Oh, Bobby. That’s… really sweet of you.” Emma felt like giving him a hug, but the counter acted as a strict barrier. It was probably for the best – Robert was the kind of person to see an approach to hug as some sort of attack. “That would be lovely, we could do with some fresh food for once. But we’ll pay you, of course.”

“No, seriously. It’s on the house. I can drop it off later on?”

“Well, I’ll be out, but Dad will be home. Thanks, Bobby. That’s really lovely of you.”

As Emma waved the tall, awkward boy out of the shop, she made a mental note to write his mother a ‘thank you’ card.

Just as she stretched and thought that it might be time to tart with the afternoon clear-up, Emma heard the doorbell ding, prompting her to look up excitedly at the prospect of a customer. Miss Bates bustled in, knocking over one of the sugar-holders on the table nearest the door.

“Whoops! Only me.” she said cheerfully, righting the table. Emma fixed a smile on her face.

“Hi, Georgiana.”

“Good shift, dear?”

“Well –“

“Good, good.”

As the old woman pottered around, straightening chairs and picking up a few mugs, Emma braced herself for the ‘talk’. The new, completely unnecessary member of staff, perhaps? A pay-rise that the shop couldn’t afford?

When Miss Bates gave no indication that she had any recollection of asking Emma for a chat, Emma cleared her throat. “Did you want to talk to me about something?”

“Sorry? Oh, yes, of course. Silly me!” Miss Bates laughed in that irritating, flighty way which made Emma grit her teeth. “Shall we go through to the back office?”

The woman bustled off, and Emma blinked as she watched her swing the kitchen door open. The back office? What kind of talk warranted sitting in the back office?

Miss Bates was already sat at the table when Emma walked through from the kitchen; she readjusted her glasses and smiled, gesturing in a way that she must have thought was inviting and open. Emma sat down on the edge of her seat.

“Right. Emma.” Something in Miss Bates’ voice reminded Emma of a school principle, and it must have shown on her face, because Miss Bates laughed. “Don’t look so worried, dear! You’re not in trouble.”

Emma smiled cautiously, but said nothing.

“Look, Emma.” Miss Bates suddenly took on a business-like air, clasping her hands in front of her on the table. “You’ve worked here since you were, what? Fifteen?”

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen. So, a good three years now.”

“Almost five.”

“Yes, almost five. Of course. So, I’d say you know the shop pretty well now, yes?”

Emma felt like shaking the woman. Instead, she smiled self-deprecatingly. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“And you know that I’m getting on a bit. Traditionally, Hartfield has been passed down through my family. My grandfather, then my mother, then my cousin, then I managed the shop. And, although I would pass it down to my dear Jane, she seems to have no interest in running the café. Rather be off gallivanting with her boyfriend in Essex, or wherever it is they’ve moved to.” She looked over the rim of her glasses. “Do you follow?”

Emma felt like a stone had settled at the bottom of her stomach. “Y-yes. I follow.”

“And, seeing as I have no children of my own, and you know the shop inside out, I was going to say that you shall take my place as manager when I retire!”

Miss Bates smiled brightly and clapped her hands together as she spoke this last sentence. Emma opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Miss Bates faltered slightly.

“Emma? Oh, dear, I won’t be retiring for a few years yet, so you can stay on doing what it is you’re doing, and then finally take over when – oh, oh! Dear, oh no, why are you – “

“I’m, I’m fine!” Emma gasped. She suddenly could not stop crying, heavy, wet sobs escaping her mouth as she tried t speak. She dabbed ineffectually at her eyes, but the tears would not stop. “Sorry! I’m so sorry, Georgiana, I’m sorry.”

“My love, what’s the matter! I thought you would be happy, you’ve worked here for so long!” Miss Bates was wringing her gnarled hands together. “Manager! You would be taking over!”

Don’t say it again! Emma desperately thought as another sob racked her body.

Manager.

Of Hartfield café.

In Highbury.

In a few years time.

Is this what her life was going to be?

*

“And I’ll have the mushroom tagliatelle, please.”

Harriet beamed up at the tall, dark haired waiter as she handed him her menu; he left the table with a smile, and then Emma noticed him look back briefly and grin at her. She rolled her eyes.

“Emma!” Harriet screeched at a lower volume, leaning forward over the table. “He was totally checking you out.”

Emma sipped her wine and raised her eyebrows. “Yeah, to try and score a better tip at the end of the night.”

The whole night had been lovely so far. The Italian restaurant was a particular favourite of Emma’s (although she had gone off it for a short while when George had gone there on his 'date' with Jane Fairfax), fancy and posh but in an understated way. The lights were low and golden, the music was soft, and the food was always delicious. Harriet had never been, and was evidently enjoying herself, sipping her wine demurely and looking around at the décor in wonder every two minutes or so.

Emma hadn’t told her about the disastrous meeting with Miss Bates. After finally stopping the torrent of tears, Emma had snivelled that she would consider it, and slunk her way back into the café, where there had been, of course, no customers.

She hadn’t texted George, yet, either.

This was something that Emma would keep at the back of her mind, until she could sit and unwrap it and stare at it and properly consider it without bursting into tears.

Just not yet.

“How’s George then, anyway?” Harriet enquired, folding her hands on the tablecloth. There was no malice or ulterior motive in the question – her brief crush on George the year before had been long forgotten; she and Robert were the cutest couple Emma had ever come across. When she had told George that she still took _some_ credit for that match, he had simply rolled his eyes and told her not to get back into old habits.

“George is good. He’s working super hard on his dissertation, doing lots of long shifts at the pub. It’s hard to see each other all of the time, but we manage.” Emma watched her finger run around the rim of her wine glass. Her mother used to do that with glasses, and it made a ringing noise; Emma could never figure out how to do it properly. “Today, actually, he asked if I want a key cut for his flat.”

“Oh, really?” Harriet grinned ecstatically, her curls bouncing. “That’s great, Em!” Then her smile abated slightly. “Does… does that mean you two are staying in the village, then?”

Emma sighed. “I don’t know, Harriet. I didn’t ask. We’ve talked about it a bit, but it usually ends in some sort of argument. I know we used to argue constantly anyway because, you know, that’s what we’re like. And we still do, we bicker. But arguing about moving is just… it’s horrible. He keeps saying we can wait until his Masters is finished over Autumn to decide what to do, and I say that’s the best option, but I know that we’re just…”

“Avoiding it?”

“Exactly.” Emma went to rub her eyes, but remembered how long she had spent on her makeup, and so placed her hands on her lap. “We had a big talk in the café a few months ago. George said that he worries he’s too old and boring for me – “

“Old? He’s twenty-five, not fifty!”

“Exactly. But then I also said that I worry I’m too childish and silly for him, and it turns out we’re both stupid because we both love each other so much. I’m just worried that I’ll agree to leave, to move out and live with him… and everything will change.”

“Like what? What would change?”

“Like…” Really though, Emma briefly thought to herself. What would change? “It’s a new setting, and I’ve spent my whole life here, in Highbury. George has already seen the world, he’s already travelled and gone to new places. I’d be out of my depth.” She took a deep breath. “And my dad, Harriet. I can’t leave my dad.

Harriet nodded sympathetically; they were both quiet for a moment. Then Harriet looked up brightly. “What about Isabella? Couldn’t your dad go and live with her?”

Emma laughed dryly. “You think they’ve got room with the kids? And I can’t exactly see John being delighted about that, either. Besides, it’s not just about… convenience. I’m not trying to palm him off on somebody else, and it’s not like I think of him as holding me back. George said that, if it came down to it, he would stay in the village to be with me. I just love my dad too much to leave him, Harriet. He couldn’t cope.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get it.”

The conversation was too depressing. Emma hadn’t come to dinner to be sad, she wanted to eat some pasta, drink some wine and have a laugh, damn it! Thankfully, the food seemed to be on its way, as Harriet sat up straighter and smiled at a spot just behind Emma’s head. Sure enough, two heaping bowls of food were placed in front of them. Emma sat demurely and raised her eyebrows at Harriet, who was trying desperately not to giggle as the dark haired waiter from before ground pepper onto Emma’s plate. They began eating, ordered two more glasses of wine for the food, and tucked in, laughing and gossiping as they ate. It was just like before, Emma thought. It was good to have her friend back.

“Oh, my God, I didn’t tell you!” Harriet exclaimed when she had swallowed a particularly big mouthful of tagliatelle. “I met Bob’s parents the other day.”

Emma raised her eyebrows and quickly swallowed her gulp of wine. Her cheeks felt hot – they had polished off one bottle between them so far. “How did that go? Were you nervous? Was he nervous?”

“Fine, yes, and yes.” Harriet smiled as she twirled her fork around and around in the pasta. “I think he was more nervous than me, to be honest. It was quite cute, actually, he was bustling around getting us all tea and coffee, and was talking so much I couldn’t get a word in. Imagine that!”

Emma tried to imagine Robert being talkative, but simply couldn’t It was like trying to imagine Isabella without being stressed, or like Frank meditating.

“But, anyway, once he settled down it was fine. His parents are really nice, they put me right at ease. His mum used to be an English teacher, before she bought the shop, so she was super interested in my degree.”

“Harriet,” Emma smiled and reached her arm across the table, taking her friend’s hand. “That fantastic, it really is. His parents have always been nice. They’re giving us some free vegetables from the shop, actually. Rob’s probably dropped them off – oh.”

Emma was suddenly interrupted by a tentative hand touching her shoulder. She looked up to see the handsome face of their waiter looking down at her, except this time he wasn’t smirking; he looked worried. He was holding a landline phone in his hand.

“Emma Woodhouse?”

“Yes, that’s me.” Emma could feel her throat start to dry up.

“There’s a call for you, a man. It sounds urgent.”

Emma looked at Harriet, who was staring at her anxiously. She thanked the waiter and took the phone off him, pressing it to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Emma? Is that you?”

“Rob?” Emma looked back at Harriet again, who was leaning forward across the table. “Is everything okay?”

She had never heard him sound so wound up. “Um, not really, I tried to ring you and Harriet but neither of you answered.” Harriet, obviously able to overhear the call, scrambled in her bag for her mobile. She showed the screen to Emma: seven missed calls.

“Rob.” Emma tried to control the shake that was threatening to impact her voice. “What’s happened?”

“I went round to yours, I would have gone earlier but there was so much unpacking to do in the shop, so I went round a bit later than I intended with a box of stuff from my mum, and I went to your house and knocked on the door and nobody answered, I kept knocking and thought your dad might be out but then I remembered that you said he would definitely be in, so I thought I should probably go round the back to see if the, uh, if the back door was open, but, but then I heard this, like, this shouting noise, and it was from inside the house, and I realised it was your dad but I couldn’t hear him, and the door wouldn’t open and then it got louder and he sounded really distressed, so I, I, I had to kick the door down, and Mrs. Goddard came to see what was happening and she nearly rang the police, then I –“

“Rob!” Tears were spilling down Emma’s cheeks now; she could feel Harriet’s worried eyes on her, and sensed the presence of the waiter hovering behind her chair. “My dad, what’s happened to my dad?”

“He fell down the stairs, I kicked down the door and then he was just lying there shouting and crying, and there was blood by his head and his, and his, his leg looked all funny, and we didn’t want to touch him because he was in so much pain, and then he kind of passed out but kept coming to and asking for you.”

Emma clapped a hand to her mouth to try and stop a loud sob from escaping. Harriet had begun putting on her coat, and was shaking her head over and over as she gathered her things. “Rob, where are you?” Emma said through her tears.

“Hospital in town, Mrs. Goddard rang an ambulance and he got taken away, I rode there with him. Mrs. Goddard is at your house, I think she’s ringing George. Come quick, come quickly to the hospital.”

Emma put the phone down; her hand was shaking. She looked up – Harriet was stood, carrying Emma’s bag and coat. “Come on,” her own voice slightly wobbly. “We’ll get a taxi.”

“I’ll ring one for you ladies,” the waiter jumped in, still looking concerned. “There’s a cab office just round the corner. The meal is on us.”

Still crying, Emma weaved between the tables, heading straight for the door. The air of the Summer evening was humid on her face; it made her feel sick.

She could hear Harriet in the restaurant, thanking the waiter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my guys and gals and non binary pals!
> 
> ahhh sorry !!! slight cliffhanger :0
> 
> just a psa, robert martin is my favourite character to write ever and he deserves the world (but so does emma, bless her)
> 
> i hope you are all well! comments/kudos etc etc, you know the drill ;)
> 
> thank you all for reading so far, big love to all of you <333


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: mention of injury (broken bones)

“Your father has a few cracked ribs, which are easily treatable and potentially not even very dangerous. He thankfully only has a mild concussion and, whilst there was a lot of blood from his head which can look alarming, the cut wasn’t very deep. However, we will have to keep him in overnight…”

Emma could hear the doctor talking, could see that she was looking straight at her with a grave look in her eyes, but wasn’t really taking any of it in. She felt simultaneously exhausted and electric, her body buzzing but her eyes glazing over. The hospital corridor smelt of disinfectant and sterile equipment, with a sticky-smelling undercurrent of tangy metal. Emma could vaguely hear George asking questions, then felt his arm tighten slightly around her shoulder as he spoke her name.

“Emma? Did you hear any of that?”

“What? Oh, um,” Emma blinked and shook her head. She had to pay attention – they might not think she was a good daughter! “Sorry, what was that last part?”

“Your father has a broken femur,” the doctor said patiently. “Which is unfortunately one of the worst bones to break. Generally, it is very difficult for a femur to break, as it’s the largest bone in the human body and it usually takes a serious impact, like a car collision, to cause it any major damage. But, as your father is an older patient, his bones are frailer, and the angle at which he fell caused the bone to break.”

“Apparently it’s only broken in one place,” George continued. “Which is one positive, but it’s still a serious injury.” He turned back to the doctor. “How long does it take for a broken femur to heal?”

“Anywhere from three to six months.” The doctor looked down at her clipboard, signalling the conversation was coming to an end. “We’ll need to keep him in overnight for monitoring. I don’t think that a CT scan is necessary at this point, but we will need to keep a close eye on his femur.” She looked straight at Emma again. “He will need to stay in the hospital for a few days, five at the most.” She smiled slightly vacantly, and Emma guessed that she had more things to be getting on with. “He’s asleep now, but you’re welcome to go in and see him.”

As the doctor turned around, Emma felt a bubble of panic rise in her throat. “I thought he had a concussion? You aren’t meant to sleep when you’re concussed!”

“It’s induced sleep, Em, it’s okay. They know what they’re doing.” George rubbed her arm and gently moved her around so she was facing him. “Why don’t you go in and see him? I’ll get us some coffee.”

Emma blinked again; the harsh, synthetic lights brought out the lines and two-day old stubble on George’s face, and suddenly he looked a lot older than twenty-five – but Emma guessed that she herself didn’t look her best. She certainly felt like an old woman. She rubbed her eyes and stifled a yawn.

“Okay. Yeah, okay. See you in a minute.”

The room Emma quietly slipped in to was both wide and long, full of the same sickly medical smell that pervaded the corridor. Beds lined each side of the room, some with curtains drawn around them, some visible. A few were empty, which, for some reason, looked eerie and made Emma’s skin prickle. Some visitors sat by different beds, ranging from a large Indian family crowded so tightly around one bed that Emma could not see the patient, to an old man sat by the bedside of a woman who seemed to be his wife, looking through the pile of cards on the cabinet next to her. A man with no visitors in a corner bed was coughing quietly and continuously, occasionally looking up in a sort of guilty apology. Emma caught his eye and tried to smile weakly.

Hospitals made her nervous.

For a split second, Emma was transported back to the hospital her mother had stayed in. She was nine again, sidling up to her mother’s bedside, hardly recognising the woman sleeping in front of her. She remembered that she had been scared to hold her hand – it had looked so thin and gnarled, miles away from the plump, pale fingers complete with perpetually sparkly nail polish that Emma was used to.

Then she saw her dad in one of the beds and rushed over to him.

He looked so frail; the pale blue sheets washed him out, so he looked pale. There was a white patch on his forehead where he must have hit it – according to Robert, it looked as though it had whacked against one of the knobs on the wooden banister. In an image that would have been bizarrely funny if Emma hadn’t felt like crying, his leg was covered up to the thigh in a white plaster and elevated slightly above the bed in some sort of sling. Emma sat down next to her father and immediately felt any energy she had left seep out of her body, as soon as her legs hit the chair. Through hooded eyes, she looked at his face; his jaw was slack as he slept, his eyelids completely still.

The taxi ride to the hospital had been horrible. Whilst it had only taken fifteen minutes, it had felt like hours. Harriet had kept a tight hold of Emma’s fingers with one hand, whilst the other hand pressed her phone to her ear, yammering away to Rob, who informed them both that George had rushed straight from work to the hospital. When they had finally arrived, George and Robert had been waiting under the white synthetic lights in the reception. Robert had looked pale and out of place, like he had shell-shock or something. He kept apologising, but Emma couldn’t work out why. George must have clocked that she was in a state of shock and completely took over, finding the doctor immediately, telling Robert and Harriet to go home, arranging to ring Harriet later to give an update, planning out what to tell Isabella and how to stop her from leaving the kids and immediately rushing to Highbury. Emma had simply stood and let his words wash over her, the wine and shock fuzzing her brain.

When she took her father’s hand, it was cold. It felt so small.

“I got you coffee.”

Emma looked up at the sound of George’s voice, and saw him stood over her, holding out a polystyrene cup. She sipped it gratefully, then winced. George grimaced.

“That bad?”

“It’s not great.”

He pulled up one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs next to her and sat down heavily, resting his elbows on his knees. Emma studied his face; she often forgot how close George and her father were. For all of her insistence against the fact, George had grown up as part of the family, and Mr. Woodhouse had always doted on him.

“I guess all we can do is thank our lucky stars that it wasn’t more serious.” George said gravely, his voice quiet. “I mean, obviously it’s serious. But it could have been a lot worse.”

“He’s still here.”

Emma looked back at her sleeping father and felt George’s hand encase her own. “Exactly.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Emma’s body had woken up slightly, and now there was only one thing on her mind.

“I can’t leave him, George.”

“What?”

Emma looked back at her boyfriend, knowing that her mouth was set into a frown. “Not now, I just can’t.”

“Em, is this really the best time?”

“Yes, George,” Emma suddenly felt like crying, blinking fiercely. “Yes, we have to talk about this now. I’ve been meaning to have this conversation with you since Christmas, and I’ve been putting it off, so I need to say it. Will you let me say it?”

George shut his mouth, which had been slightly open as if he were about to speak. All of the hospital noises suddenly seemed muffled and far away. Emma shut her eyes briefly, then looked straight at George again, square in his serious face.

“I want to be with you, more than anything. You know that. You’re my best friend, you’re one of the most important parts of my life, and I… I love you so much, George. You’ve helped me become a better person, I hardly even recognise the silly little girl I was this time last year, because you made me realise how… how juvenile, and how, how stupid I was. And I will always, always be grateful for that. Really, I want nothing more than to just get up and leave with you, travel to different places and explore… but it terrifies me. You’re such an open person, you’re up for anything, and I’d just drag you down. No, let me finish. And now this, with Dad. He can’t take care of himself, George, you heard what the doctor said. It could take six months for his leg to heal, you won’t want to be hanging around for that long.”

George looked down at his clasped hands, avoiding Emma’s gaze for too long. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and hoarse. “Is this… are you breaking up with me?”

“No.” Emma whispered. “I don’t know. I don’t want us to break up George, it took us too long to get to this point, and I love you.”

“I love you too.” He looked up, his eyes narrowed. He wasn’t quite crying, but there was a glassiness to his gaze that threatened tears. “You know what I said, Em, you know that I’d stay in Highbury with you if it came down to it.”

“But if the only reason for you to stay is for me, then I wouldn’t want you to. You need to get out, you need to travel and do amazing things and lecture in, I don’t know, some big university where you can meet interesting people, and, and, discover new things to teach and study, and live somewhere exciting. You have savings and money from your dad, it needs to be put to use.”

“I want that for you, as well. I want to do those things with you.”

Emma sighed, pressed her lips together to stop any of the sobs that were building up. Briefly, she thought back to around this time last year, when she and George were bickering in the café over her meddling. How he had asked if she considered him a friend, and how she had shrugged. So much had changed.

“I’m not ready, George. I’m just not. I don’t know if I’ll ever be. And…” Emma gestured sadly at her sleeping father. “He needs me. He acts as though he doesn’t, but he does.”

“ _I_ need you.” George’s voice was quiet; it cracked slightly in the middle, making him sound small and vulnerable. Emma couldn’t look at him. “Emma. I need you.”

“Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be, George.” She sniffed and took his hands gently between her own. “You won’t be leaving for another two months or so. Can we just… can we pretend? Until you leave, can we just pretend that everything is okay, that it’s normal? I…” Emma almost choked on her own words as the sobs tried to take over. “I want us to pr-pretend, until we can’t anymore. Is that okay?”

It wasn’t okay, none of it was okay.

Emma could see it in George’s eyes, in the downward turn of his lips, in his hunched shoulders and shaking hands.

She could feel it in her heart and bones that everything was wrong, and it would hurt.

God, how it would hurt.

George rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb.

“Okay. We can pretend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i have to admit this made me sad writing it
> 
> sorry it's short! newest update will be soon my lovelies, i've been writing like mad recently
> 
> hope you are all well my dears! i had a lovely birthday and i'm very excited to be moving out this weekend
> 
> stay safe everyone, much love to you all <3


	18. Chapter 18

One of the many phrases that Harriet had taught Emma from her Literature course was ‘pathetic fallacy’. Emma vaguely remembered learning about it in her high school English classes, but couldn’t quite remember what it meant – she had acted semi-interested when Harriet told her that it meant the weather reflecting the mood of a certain character, like rain pouring down during a dramatic monologue, when all Emma had wanted to do was process an order for two tea cakes and a salad.

As she squinted out of the window into the sun, however, Emma wished that her life would contain some pathetic fallacy.

It didn’t make sense that it was sunny and unseasonably warm for the beginning of Autumn. She felt depressed and lonesome, which would have been more appropriate had it been raining, or even slightly overcast and chilly. But no, the sun was strong and bright as September rolled around once again. It had been so cold the year before – Emma remembered that ridiculous night when she walked for miles to get home in the freezing cold, feeling like her feet would fall off. She had been depressed then, too, Emma morosely thought, as that stupid walk had preceded the two weeks that she had spoken to neither George nor Harriet. It was almost funny, now Emma could reflect on it.

Emma suddenly realised how tired she was, as well, as she gazed out of her bedroom window. The windowsill in her room had always been her favourite part: it was wide and sturdy enough to sit on, and the window was huge – like a big screen, George had once said. Laughing, Emma had asked what he meant. “Well,” he had blushed slightly. “It’s like your own little cinema, isn’t it? You can sit on the sill and watch the world go by.”

George’s graduation ceremony had been the night before, accounting for Emma’s fatigue. Harriet had laughed when Emma rang her up two weeks prior and commandeered her help on choosing a dress – “I didn’t even know they did ceremonies for postgraduates!” – but had eventually helped Emma settle on an emerald-green formal dress, with a long hem and a low neckline. The price had made Emma’s eyes water, but it was worth it to see George turn around in his graduation gown and smile like his entire world had been handed to him on a plate. The ceremony itself had been admittedly boring – who wanted to listen to some old professor drone on in Latin? – but Emma couldn’t contain the swell of pride in her heart when George, smiling sheepishly, received his certificate on stage, and had almost burst out crying. Mrs. Knightley, who was also trying to contain a flurry of sobs, had silently handed her a tissue to press to her eyes and nose.

Emma was almost grateful that her father couldn’t have been there (she had said this later on to George, who had guiltily agreed), because he wouldn’t have enjoyed it much anyway. He had congratulated George before the two left, after Emma had made sure he was settled in his armchair with a novel, the fireplace burning, and his leg elevated correctly. The evening had been pleasant enough, once the ceremony was out of the way. It was held in some fancy stately home a few miles outside of the village; Emma had felt slightly on-edge about leaving her father, but she also knew that Robert Martin would be making periodic checks from across the road. So, she drank champagne, she held George’s hand, she danced, she nodded and smiled when his friends and professors spoke about ‘domestic policy’ and ‘unilateral decisions’.

It had all been very nice – until the night came to a screeching halt after one particular conversation.

_“And who’s this lovely young lady, then?” The old professor who had started a discussion about career paths with George suddenly turned his attention to Emma. She was startled, and tried not to stare at his jowls, which moved every time he spoke in a way that reminded her of a basset hound._

_“Oh, hello. Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself.” Emma quickly put her champagne glass down on a nearby table and held out her hand. The professor leant forward slightly, then looked slightly perturbed that Emma was waiting for a shake rather than a kiss on the hand. “I’m Emma Woodhouse, George’s girlfriend.”_

_“Oh!” He gave Emma’s hand a firm shake. “Professor Wright, but call me Arnold.” Arnold looked from George to Emma jovially, jowls shaking. “Your boyfriend has been quite a student, Miss Woodhouse.”_

_Emma looked at George proudly, who had begun to blush. “Yes, I’m sure. We’re all expecting him to go on and do great things.” She tried to ignore the sudden downward pull at George’s lips, and the iron fist squashing her heart._

_“It’s you I’m interested in, Miss Woodhouse!” Arnold gave her what he must have thought was a charming wink; Emma felt George tense up slightly next to her. “What is it that you do? University, or are you part of the working world?”_

_“Me? Oh, I, um…”_

_Emma felt her heart speed up. She could sense George’s eyes on her, could see Arnold gazing at her expectantly. What did she do?_

_“I actually –“_

_“Emma runs a café in the village where we grew up.” George cut in before Emma could speak._

_“Well, I don’t really run it, George.”_

_“She’s being modest,” George’s voice sped up as he addressed Arnold, whose bushy grey eyebrows were raised. Emma pursed her lips; she could feel a blush creeping up her neck. “Emma’s basically the manager of the whole shop, and she, um, reads a lot, don’t you?”_

_“Not really –“_

_“But she’s always wanted to go into something like event planning, or hotel management, haven’t you, babe?”_

_“I mean, I’ve mentioned it. In passing.” Emma furrowed her brow and tried to catch George’s eyes, but he was still looking at Arnold. She picked up her drink and smiled sweetly at the old man. “I’m sorry, Arnold, will you excuse me? I must go and check on my father. He had a fall a few months ago, you see, so I’ve turned into what you might call a full-time carer.” She glared at George whilst still maintaining a smile. “That’s what I do.”_

The argument following that exchange had been fairly astronomical, by their standards.

_“Why did you have to make that shit up, hm?” Emma hissed. They were both stood in the over-decorated foyer, trying to keep their voices down as well-dressed, tipsy couples made their way past, some of them obliviously stopping to greet George. In frustration, George ran his hands through his styled hair._

_“I didn’t make anything up!”_

_“’She runs a café?’ ‘She reads a lot?’” Emma crossed her arms. “Neither of those things are true, and I don’t need you to answer for me. And, for the record, I’ve mentioned event planning once.”_

_“You looked uncomfortable, Em, I was trying to help!”_

_“Are you ashamed of me, is that it?”_

_“What? Em, I –“_

_“Because you’re the clever one, you’re the one who has some sense of direction and always knows what he’s doing, who got a First and now a fucking Masters, and all I do is run a failing café and stay at home with my dad.”_

_“Maybe if you actually did something, then, I wouldn’t have to pretend!”_

Emma shut her eyes as she remembered the burning sensation in her chest that had nothing to do with the champagne. She had flounced off, before hearing George remind her that they needed to get their coats. Feeling vaguely ridiculous but too angry to care, she had queued for the cloakroom, ignoring George, who was quietly and sheepishly rummaging around his pockets for the token. The walk to the car had been cold and brisk, Emma stomping ahead, not even caring that the hem of her dress was probably getting dusty from the carpark. When they finally got in the car, George had apologised so much that Emma thought he might cry, leaning his head on the steering wheel and berating himself for being so thoughtless. Emma had relented and accepted his apology; they talked and talked and talked some more until Emma started crying, then decided to put it to bed and just go home. It was much nicer to cuddle on the sofa in comfortable pyjamas, knowing that Mr. Woodhouse was sound asleep upstairs, than to be stuck at some stuffy graduation ceremony.

All they seemed to do nowadays was either talk too much, or avoid talking about _it_ at all. Emma knew that they had to continue being ‘normal’, and pretend that George hadn’t finished his degree, and that the lease wasn’t almost over on his flat, and that he wasn’t looking at cheap flights to places like Portugal and Croatia, and that Miss Bates wasn’t slowly passing on all managerial duties to Emma, and that Mr. Woodhouse occasionally called Emma by her mother’s name when he wasn’t fully awake yet.

But sometimes, like on the night of George’s ceremony, it bubbled to the surface, and neither of them could help but remember that they would be parting ways soon, and there was nothing to be done about it.

“You know I’ll come back to visit you, don’t you?” George had said one night, his head resting on Emma’s chest. Emma hadn’t replied, simply continuing to stroke his curly hair gently. She didn’t want him to come back, she realised. If he came back again with a tan, light hair, and a collection of travelling stories that didn’t involve her, Emma didn’t want to know.

“Emma!”

Emma sighed, then mentally scolded herself. She swung her legs off the windowsill and padded her way through her room and down the stairs, following the familiar voice.

“Emma!”

“Coming, Dad. Don’t worry,” Emma sped up slightly and almost skidded into the living room, gently touching her father’s arm. “I’m here.”

The living room had always been Mr. Woodhouse’s favourite domain in the house. The large windows overlooked the garden, and he would sit for hours at a time, content to gaze at the birds, occasionally poring through one of his birdwatching books to identify a species. George had once suggested to Emma that they buy him an iPad and show him how to look things up, so identifying birds might be easier. Emma had concluded that it would have never worked – Mr. Woodhouse could hardly stand using the house landline, let alone any form of technology.

In the last few months, the living room had become Mr. Woodhouse’s bedroom. Whilst his physiotherapy was going well (the femur operation had gone ahead with no complications) and Emma was insistent that he keep up with his daily leg exercises, stairs still proved a challenge. So, George and Robert Martin had been enlisted to move the spare bed downstairs and set up in front of the television, the sofa pushed to the edge of the room. The sacred armchair was still pride of place in front of the fire, and Emma had cleared a small space under the window for her father to complete his exercises. It had been set up like this since the beginning of the summer, two days before Mr. Woodhouse was due to leave the hospital.

“Did you need anything, Dad?”

Mr. Woodhouse looked vaguely at his daughter. For a second, Emma was struck with that old, familiar worry; his brain was growing weaker, his memory was on the decline. Her father was old.

Then, his eyes brightened, and he cleared his throat. “Yes, actually. Well, just sit down with me for a moment, darling.”

Feeling vaguely like she was about to be told off, Emma perched on the end of the bed and faced the armchair. He looked tired, she noticed – but then again, he always looked tired nowadays.

“Emma…”

Slowly, Emma watched her father’s hand move from his lap to hers, resting gently on top of her own hand. His palm was warm and dry; she clutched his hand and waited for him to continue.

“I know that George is leaving soon.”

Emma blinked. She hadn’t told him yet, they had been planning on telling him together. “What? How do you know that?” She raised her eyebrows. “Did George tell you? Without me? Oh, I’m going to –“

“No! Emma, no.” Mr Woodhouse’s outburst stopped Emma in her tracks. She sat back down and waited again.

“He didn’t tell me, nobody did. You two aren’t very good at keeping secrets, you know?”

“Wait, what? What do you mean?”

Mr. Woodhouse smirked slightly, which made him suddenly look younger, and raised his bushy eyebrows. “Well, darling. Whispering, secret discussions and such. You’re my daughter, and I’ve known George for over a decade.” He chuckled throatily. “It was actually very funny when you two finally confessed that you were courting, as if I didn’t already know.”

Emma gawked at her father, her face hot. “You knew?”

“Like I said, dear. Bad liars, the pair of you.”

Bewildered, Emma sat back slightly, shaking her head. “So you knew in… you knew last October! That’s when we made it official, but we didn’t tell you until December. You knew for two whole months!”

Mr Woodhouse, evidently finding the entire situation amusing, chuckled again. “I’d suspected for a while, dear.”

“How long?”

“About five years.”

Emma stared at her father for a moment, not sure of what to say – and then suddenly cracked up. Soon enough, the pair were laughing merrily, Emma clutching at the sheets she was sat on and giggling helplessly, Mr. Woodhouse wiping his eyes.

Abruptly, he winced and stopped laughing. Emma anxiously watched his face as Mr. Woodhouse tried to adjust his leg, which was outstretched and resting on a foot stool.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, darling. Just a funny angle – no, no, I’m fine.”

Emma sat back, twisting her fingers together. She could feel a big talk coming on, and decided that now was as good a time as any.

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner, Dad. It’s just all so complicated at the moment, we wanted to make sure everything was sorted before you knew.”

“So, tell me. How much of this is… sorted?” Mr. Woodhouse looked at his daughter steadily, his hands clasped on his lap, waiting for her to speak. There was no hint of pressure or disappointment in his question – only curiosity and concern. Emma sighed and looked down at her lap.

“I don’t know, Dad. I know that George is making all these plans, and I’m just… ignoring them. It’s too hard.”

“You’re definitely staying here?”

There was a crack in his voice that made Emma look up. Her father’s eyes were filled with tears, his jaw set.

“Dad…”

“Emma, this is my fault. I don’t want to limit you, my darling. You must go with him.”

“Dad –“

“You cannot spend the rest of your life rotting away in this village, looking after an old man, whilst George is off gallivanting God knows where, and –“

He was getting himself worked up, so Emma tried her best to placate him, even whilst her own heart felt like it was breaking. “Dad, stop it. It’s okay. I’m not just staying for you, you’re not holding me back, okay? I’m not ready to leave.”

Mr. Woodhouse stopped, but still shifted restlessly in his chair. He shut his eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose, an action that Emma knew both she and Isabella had inherited. “What will you do?”

“I’ll st-stay here.” Emma swallowed, trying to smile. She loved Highbury, she really did. It was in her bones; she had tried to explain this to George once, who had simply furrowed his brow and said that he didn’t understand. “Miss Bates has offered me the job of managing Hartfield when she retires.”

“Really?”

“Really. So I’ll have that, and I can visit Harriet at university. I’ll have the café, and the Church, and you. I’ll do some volunteering at city hall, maybe. I can babysit, too, and I’ll have to hire more staff once I’m manager.” She heard the shake in her voice, and stopped talking. Tried to smile again, avoiding her father’s gaze.

There was a long silence.

“And… and George?”

And George.

“We’re just… taking it one day at a time. We can still be friends, we were friends for years before we started seeing each other.”

Mr. Woodhouse smiled sadly. “I think ‘friends’ is pushing it slightly, darling. You could hardly stand him.”

Emma felt a tear trickle down her cheek and laughed softly. “I still can’t.”

*

Much later on, feeling slightly guilty, Emma was walking through the village towards George’s flat. Anytime she left the house since her father’s accident, Emma was always left with an overarching sense of guilt and abandonment. Mr. Woodhouse had practically pushed her out of the door, telling her to go and see George, to stay over if she really wanted. Emma rarely slept at his nowadays, usually leaving before midnight or inviting him to stay at the cottage instead.

George had texted Emma from work and told her to let herself in, with the key that he had handed to her a few months previously with great ceremony. He said that he would be back in an hour with takeaway – Emma had smiled with relief that she wouldn’t have to help George in the kitchen again. According to him, cooking was relaxing – Emma could think of a thousand things that were more relaxing than standing in a hot kitchen, trying to balance boiling pasta with not getting onion juice in one’s eye.

In short, she was looking forward to a hot, unhealthy takeaway.

The evening was warm, still too warm for Autumn, as Emma slowly strolled down her road. The thought of an early shift in the morning was deeply unpleasant – and all of her shifts had turned into early ones.

“Woodhouse!” A familiar voice called from across the road. “Hey, Emma!”

Emma turned to see Robert Martin lightly jogging towards her, clad in shorts and some obscure band t-shirt.

“Hey Rob.” Emma realised she must have sounded down, because Robert raised his eyebrows.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m fine.”

Robert pursed his lips, which would have made Emma laugh if she wasn’t already feeling so miserable.

“I just wanted to ask how your dad is? He seemed alright last night when I popped in, we had a cup of tea.”

“Yeah, he said. He’s fine today, thanks. I’m really grateful for last night, Rob, honestly. Thank you.”

“Hey, no worries.” He looked down at the ground sheepishly, and Emma was briefly reminded of how shy he had been with her last year, and how she had assumed it was simply rudeness. How stupid of her. “Look, I just wanted to…” He paused for a moment. “I know it’s difficult, with Knightley and all.”

Harriet. It must have been Harriet that told him. Emma was about to make a mental note to scold her when they saw each other, but the thought left as soon as it came – they were boyfriend and girlfriend now, of course she would tell him things like that.

“…you’ll work through it, though.”

With a guilty jolt, Emma realised she had zoned out for half of Robert’s speech. She smiled at him, hoping that she didn’t look too vacant. “Thanks. That’s sweet of you.”

“Hey, if it’s any consolation, I’ll be hanging around for a while yet. That album deal fell through, so I’m stuck here too.”

He was laughing, but Emma could see the pain behind his grey eyes. She wondered if she, too, was that unintentionally transparent about her unhappiness. “I’m sorry about that, Bobby. You’ll get there soon.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged passively and shifted his feet. “It’s fine. But, anyway. Just wanted to check in. And, um. Say hi to Knightley for me, when you see him.”

“I will.”

With an awkward little wave, Robert turned and walked back to his house. Emma watched his retreating back, and was once again struck by the fact that, last year, someone who would quickly become one of her most valued friends in the world, had been under her nose the entire time. She shook her head, and continued strolling, George’s flat building in sight.

They were an odd pairing, Harriet and Robert – but they worked. Frank had come into the café a few weeks prior for a sardonic glance at the menu and a chat. He said to Emma that he had seen the two walking together, Robert “carrying her bag and books like some sort of lovesick puppy-child.” Emma had rolled her eyes and swatted him away, telling Frank that, just because he didn’t have a romantic bone in his body, it didn’t mean that nobody did. Frank Churchill was funny, in a slightly mean way, and Emma always enjoyed it when he came back to the village for those brief periods of time – but she often found herself laughing when she thought about how much she used to like him. George still wasn’t a fan – “self-centred git”, was what he usually grumbled if Emma brought Frank up – but Emma really didn’t mind him much.

So, Emma had to agree with Frank that Harriet and Robert certainly didn’t _look_ like the sort of couple who should be together – they would walk together, hand in hand, Harriet bouncing and grinning in whatever colourful outfit she had decided to don that day, her curly hair barely coming up to Robert’s wide shoulders, whilst he loped along with a half-smile on his face, usually dressed in either some sort of black band outfit or gym gear. But then Emma would see the grin on Harriet’s face, see the way that Robert looked at her, and knew that they were right for each other. The previous Christmas, Emma had dragged George into town to present shop, and they had run into Elton and August. Or, run away from them – George spied them coming out of WHSmith and immediately pulled Emma around a corner; she had to admit, it felt rather juvenile, and she caught a case of chronic giggles whilst waiting for the couple to walk past. Then she had caught sight of their faces – miserable and cold, Elton hardly looking at his girlfriend – and shuddered to think that it could have been Harriet by Elton’s side.

This train of though brought Emma to an abrupt halt outside the vile block of flats; she buzzed herself in and used the lift (which had thankfully been fixed, finally) to get up to the top floor. When Emma let herself into George’s flat, she sensed some sort of change. Then it hit her – the boxes were back.

_“George, we have to unpack these boxes.”_

_With a groan, George swivelled around in his computer chair to face Emma, who was stood with her hands on her hips, feeling very much like some sort of drill sergeant. “Do we really?”_

_“Yes.” Gingerly, Emma poked one labelled simply ‘BOOKS’ with her toe. “You get started on those and I’ll get the kitchen stuff.”_

_“Look, I’ve got all this work to do, and –“_

_“You’ve been living here for, what, six months now?” Emma grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet, ignoring the accompanying groans. “You can’t live like this much longer, it’s like you’re squatting.”_

_“I hate packing, and I hate tidying.” George begrudgingly opened the box that Emma had thrust at him and started placing books on his bed. Emma winced at the lack of organisation._

_“I know, but it has to be done, you can’t live like a student anymore, eating off the same plate. You’ve just turned twenty-five, and it’s almost Christmas.”_

_George laughed. “Those two things have nothing to do with my untidiness.”_

_“I know, but I’m trying to think of more reasons, and I just figured if I keep talking then you might get sick of me and start unpacking.” Emma grinned. He rolled his eyes and continued removing books from the box._

_“Hey, remember when you paid me to clean your room once, when I was, like, ten?” Emma sat down on the bed and started flicking through a few books absentmindedly. “And then your mum found out and grounded you?”_

_“And you kept the money, you cheeky sod.”_

_Emma laughed triumphantly. “Of course I did! And I bought all those sweets –“_

_“And wouldn’t let me have any, yeah, I remember.” George stopped unpacking and smiled up at his girlfriend, one eyebrow cocked. “I thought you were unpacking crockery.”_

_“Nah, I think I’ll let you do it.”_

_George raised his eyebrows as if in challenge, then suddenly launched himself at her, pushing her over on the bed. Emma squealed as George tickled her, pinning her arms so she was left only able to wriggle and scream helplessly, ineffectually hitting his back and laughing until she thought her lungs might burst._

Emma peered into one of the boxes that was sat by the sofa; it contained books and, sure enough, when she looked in George’s bedroom, his bookshelves were empty.

A horrible lurch in her stomach prompted Emma to sit down on his bed and catch her breath. She had made it clear that George was not to tell her about any of his concrete plans lest it break her heart too much – what he was doing, where or when he was moving – but it still hurt. Was he leaving that soon? It had to be in the next few weeks if he was already packing boxes.

Pressing her lips together, Emma lay her head back onto the soft pillows. That familiar scent of George surrounded her; usually, breathing in his scent would calm her down. Now, it simply brought tears to her eyes.

When he went away to university, it was different: Emma was fairly relaxed about it because, in all honesty, she couldn’t wait to see the back of him. She had waved him off as he looked nervously out of the car window, almost obscured by the bags surrounding him. It had been nice to see him when he had come back for the Summer break and Christmas, but Emma had never found herself truly looking forward to his return. It was simply, George isn’t here, and now he is, and he’ll be gone again in a week.

It had been slightly different when he had left to travel straight after graduation; George had spent a few months in the village, packing and getting ready to leave – and the arguments had been infrequent. It had been a lovely time, Emma remembered, helping him get ready to travel, working together at the café back when there were regular customers. So, when he finally left for a whole year, Emma had felt the loss.

_“Emma? Darling, will you come downstairs?”_

_“Coming!”_

_Emma pulled her dressing gown belt tighter around her waist as she walked down the stairs in her slippers, briefly pausing at the bottom to readjust the towel wrapping up her hair. She could smell coffee brewing in the kitchen, and followed the smell, stifling a yawn. It was too early to be up._

_“Morning, Dad – oh.”_

_Mr. Woodhouse was sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee placed in front of him, smiling up at a figure leaning against the kitchen island. The man turned, revealing a tanned face, golden stubble and bright blue eyes._

_“George.”_

_George smiled rather sheepishly. “Hey, Em.”_

_Emma felt slightly dumbstruck, stood in the kitchen doorway fresh out of the shower. She should be grabbing a quick breakfast and coffee and getting ready for work, not blinking at the not-quite-a-brother-figure whom she had not seen for just under a year._

_“Um, when did you get back?”_

_“At about five this morning. I came straight here, but I’m going to see Mum in a bit.”_

_“Right. Well, um.” Emma chewed at the inside of her cheek, feeling strangely awkward. “It’s good to see you.”_

_“Yeah.” George considered her strangely for a moment. Then, as if they had planned it, they both stepped towards each other. George’s arms immediately wrapped around Emma’s shoulders, and she pressed her face into his chest, smiling._

_Mr. Woodhouse cleared his throat._

His hugs had always been the same: they felt like a warm, heavy blanket on a cold day, his strong arms wrapping around Emma’s body like a protective shield as she burrowed her face into his chest or shoulder.

She wondered if they would hug when he came back to the village the next time?

Would they hug and leave it at that? Would the hug become a kiss and move to the bedroom, complicating everything yet again? Or would they simply stand apart, like the day he returned from his travels, before nodding awkwardly and walking away?

Emma hated not knowing more than anything else.

The clock said it was half seven. George wouldn’t be back for an hour, at least. After a few minutes of sitting on his bed, deciding what to do, Emma pulled out her phone and called the person whom she could always rely on for a distraction or advice, depending on her mood.

“Harriet?”

“Em!” As usual, Harriet sounded like she had just won the lottery. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I…” Emma bit her lip. Her throat suddenly felt dry. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You sound – hey, hey, stop it, I’m on the phone!”

“Oh, are you with someone?” Emma realised that there was background noise on Harriet’s end, the sound of talking and laughing and clinking glasses.

“Just at the pub with, uh, Grace and Ellie and Aaron…”

Emma vaguely recognised the names: people from Harriet’s course. She rubbed her eyes, feeling like an idiot. “Shit, sorry, Harriet. I’ll leave you to it.”

“No, no!” There was a rustle, and suddenly Harriet’s voice was quieter but clearer. “Are you okay? You don’t sound yourself.”

All Emma wanted to do, more than anything, was cry. She wanted to cry down the phone to Harriet, tell her how unhappy she was, how much she didn’t want George to go, how she felt like the entire world was passing her by but she was too much of a coward to get on for the ride. Then Harriet would leave the pub and come to George’s flat, and they would talk, and then George would come home and forget all about travelling or teaching, and stay with Emma, in Highbury.

Emma tried to inject a smile into her voice. “No, I’m fine, darling, honestly. Enjoy your night.”

“Okay…” Harriet sounded unsure, but the noises from the pub were loud again, and Emma could hear her sipping her drink. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we can have a proper chat, okay?”

“Okay, Harriet.”

“Bye, love you!”

“Love you too.”

Emma threw her hone onto the bed and lay back again.

“Now,” she muttered to herself, staring at the ceiling. “We wait.”

*

George had been home later than Emma expected; she had been lying across the sofa in one of his t-shirts and a pair of pyjama shorts, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, when he finally entered the flat.

“Why don’t you pick your phone or the television, you can’t have your full attention on both at the same time.” He had grumbled whilst walking through to the kitchen, Emma following the smell of the takeaway he was carrying. She had simply rolled her eyes and kissed him on the cheek, starting to get plates out.

After the Chinese food had been thoroughly demolished, the pair were lying on the sofa watching an old _Sopranos_ rerun. Their position, with her feet in George’s lap, reminded Emma of when they were little; any time they sat down together, she would stretch her legs out and poke him with her toes, until he frustratedly shoved her off and sat somewhere else, leaving Emma with the sofa to herself.

Emma giggled, and George turned his head away from the television to face her, smiling slightly.

“What’s funny?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“No, what?”

“Just thinking about when I used to kick you off the sofa when we were younger.”

George groaned, grinning. “God, you were such an annoying kid. You’d just poke me and poke me until I moved.”

“Well, I don’t want you to move now.” Emma smiled softly as she felt George caress her calves with a light touch, almost absentmindedly. There was a short pause, the television playing quietly. It had all been so normal, so domestic, that Emma had almost forgotten about the herd of elephants roaming around the flat.

She tried to muster up some sense of what she was going to say – and then George spoke.

“I’ve been looking at flights.”

Emma swallowed. “Yeah? To where?”

“Barcelona.”

“Why there?”

“You said you wanted to go there. Your mum.”

Emma drew in a sharp breath. Her mother used to tell her stories from her travels, and Barcelona had always been somewhere that had sounded magical to Emma. George knew this.

“George, don’t do this.”

“Why not?” George moved around to face Emma properly, so she had to draw in her feet. She hugged her knees and rested her chin on the top of them, looking him square in the face.

“You know why. We’ve agreed –“

“Have we? Have we really agreed, because I don’t remember agreeing to breaking up.”

“You did, though!” Both of their voices were growing louder, with Emma’s threatening to crack. “We both agreed on it, George.”

“I can wait, I can wait another year.”

“And what if I’m still not ready in a year? What if Dad gets worse, his memory starts to go even more, what am I supposed to do then?”

“I don’t, I don’t know, but I can’t just leave you, Emma.”

“You aren’t, I’ll still be here.”

“It won’t be the same.”

“Nothing stays the same forever, George.” Emma smiled sadly. “Look at us. Who would have thought that we would end up here?”

“Emma, I’ll stay.” He grabbed both of her hands and held them tightly between his own, his blue eyes wide and desperate. “I’ll stay with you.”

“You can’t,” Emma said, shaking her head. She could feel tears running down her cheeks. “I won’t let you, George. It wouldn’t be fair. It would be like… keeping a dog in a cage that’s too small.”

George didn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes roaming over Emma’s face, his grip on her hands tight. Then he sat back heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“So you admit… that it’s a cage.”

Emma sighed.

“It’s a big enough cage for me.”

Some while later, when the sky was dark and bruised and the only light came from the pale moon, Emma held George’s head against her sweaty chest. They were both naked, lying on rumpled sheets. George had his arm flung over Emma’s waist, their feet tangled together. She lightly brushed her fingers through his hair. When she finally spoke – when it felt right – her voice was quiet, and steadier than she had expected it would be.

“This is the last time, George.”

The last thing Emma felt before she drifted to sleep was tears falling onto her breast as George muffled his sobs into her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alexa play something happy and uplifting to stop all this sad angst from getting me down
> 
> hello friends, i hope you are all happy and healthy and have had a lovely week so far!
> 
> as always, any kudos or comments are appreciated - i love interacting with readers!
> 
> love to all of you <3


	19. Chapter 19

**Twelve years earlier**

_“Emma, come on, darling. You need to interact!”_

_Emma stubbornly clutched harder at her mother’s long skirt that she was using as a sort of shield. The air was warm, the sun was shining down brightly into the small garden, and the smell of roasting meat was wafting through the crowds of people._

_Emma Woodhouse was almost nine years old, and desperately wanted to leave the party._

_She heard Mrs. Woodhouse laugh about something with a stranger who towered above Emma, briefly catching something that sounded like “children nowadays, so shy!”, before she was gently pulled to one side._

_Mrs. Woodhouse crouched down in front of her daughter. In the sunlight, Emma could see how her mother’s skin glowed. She was pale, just like her two daughters, but her golden hair bounced around her shoulders in a way that always reminded Emma of the princesses she read about in her old storybooks. Her mum was better than the princesses, though – they always needed saving. Mrs. Woodhouse could sort herself out, thank you very much._

_“Emma.” Mrs. Woodhouse smiled up at her daughter. “You can’t hide behind my skirt for the whole day.”_

_“Why not? I like your skirt.”_

_She laughed softly and took Emma’s hand. “I like it, too. Maybe you can have it one day.”_

_“When I’m older?”_

_“When you’re older. But,” Mrs. Woodhouse raised her eyebrows. “Only if you promise to try and make some friends. We can’t have you being this shy for the rest of your life, now, can we?”_

_“Why?”_

_Mrs. Woodhouse laughed again and dropped her head forward. Emma sensed a presence approach behind her, and turned to see her father stood over them both._

_“Help me out, love?” Mrs. Woodhouse spoke to her husband with an air of loving exasperation. Mr. Woodhouse smiled and crouched down with his wife and daughter on the lawn; they were stood next to the unfamiliar house, slightly away from the main bulk of the party._

_“Emma, look over there.”_

_Emma’s gaze followed where her father was pointing. “What is it?”_

_“Look, there’s John and Isabella.”_

_The couple were sat together on two lawn chairs, seemingly oblivious to the party around them. John scared Emma slightly – he was so tall and thin that she always thought he looked like he might snap, like a twig. But Isabella, with her freshly crimped hair and wide grin complete with pink braces, was gazing at her new boyfriend with such love and happiness that Emma raised her eyebrows._

_“You see how happy they look?” Mr. Woodhouse murmured. “Do you think they would have met each other if Isabella was too shy to talk to him?”_

_Emma turned back to her father, smiling self-righteously. “But, Dad, I don’t want a boyfriend.”_

_“I know, darling. But if you’re shy, how will you meet anybody? It isn’t just about boyfriends, it’s about friends as well.”_

_“We’ve come here so we can meet John’s parents properly, haven’t we?” Mrs. Woodhouse interjected. “I’m sure they want to meet you as well.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Well, because you’re Isabella’s little sister, and she loves you, so it makes sense that they would want to get to know you.”_

_Emma furrowed her brow. She thought her mother was right about everything – every Maths problem, every query about how things worked or why the sky was blue – but this, Isabella being a loving older sister, Emma wasn’t so sure about. Isabella was mean; ever since she had started doing her hair and shopping in town with her friends, she had no patience for Emma._

_But there was no time to rationally explain this all to her parents, Emma realised, because she was suddenly being pulled upright by her mother as some people approached._

_“Hello, hello, hello!” Emma looked up to see a very plump woman and a very thin man stood above her, happily greeting her parents. The woman was smiling as she talked, and her happiness was so infectious that Emma couldn’t help but smile as she watched two sets of parents hug and kiss._

_“So sorry we didn’t come to introduce ourselves sooner, you know how it is with parties and the suchlike, handing out the drinks and –“_

_“We’re very happy to finally meet you,” the man said in rather a quieter tone. “Isabella is a lovely girl.”_

_“Oh, thank you!” Mrs. Woodhouse smiled gratefully; Emma noticed that she was putting on her ‘posh voice’ as Mr. Woodhouse called it, reserved only for important telephone calls and parents’ evenings. “And, we must say, your John is a very charming boy, always so polite –“_

_“And I suppose he eats you out of house and home whenever he comes round!”_

_“Well, you know how growing boys are…”_

_As Mrs. Woodhouse and Mrs. Knightley gabbled on happily and Mr. Woodhouse and Mr. Knightley exchanged awkward nods, Emma gripped her mother’s skirt again and looked around._

_Then she saw him, stood slightly behind Mrs. Knightley, tall and vaguely out of place. She stared at him long enough that his roaming eyes settled on her, and Emma could see that they were the most brilliant shade of blue._

_“Oh, how silly of me!” The boy was suddenly pitched forward as Mrs. Knightley gave him a light shove in the back. “This is George, our youngest.” She paused, then looked down at her son. “Well, go on, then, introduce yourself!”_

_Emma stifled a laugh as she saw George blush. “H-hi.” His voice was fairly high but sounded on the verge of cracking. “I’m George.”_

_“Well, hello, George.” Mrs. Woodhouse offered out a business-like hand for the boy to shake; looking vaguely startled, he took it gingerly. Then, to Emma’s utmost horror, her father took a gentle hold of her shoulders and walked her forward a few paces._

_“This is Emma, our youngest as well. A few years younger than George, mind…”_

_“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be the best of friends!” Mrs. Knightley trilled._

_Emma looked down at the grass, beyond embarrassed. Then, remembering what her mother had said just moments before, she mustered up all of her courage and lifted her gaze to fall on this strange, tall boy._

_She smiled nervously. He looked briefly at his mother, then again at Emma. He smiled back._

**Ten years earlier**

_“George.”_

_There was no reply from the pile of blankets beside her._

_“Hey. George.” For good measure, Emma poked the pile with her foot. There was a huff of annoyance, and George’s head popped up from the bundle._

_“What?”_

_“What do you want to be when you’re older?”_

_George laughed sardonically; it was a new habit he had developed, no doubt copied from his older brother, that never failed to annoy Emma. Since he had started growing his air and getting a few spots on his face, he thought he was all that._

_“I don’t know.” He shrugged and began picking at the blanket. “What do you want to be?”_

_Emma considered for a moment, studying the pattern on the cushion in her lap. They had made a blanket fort that morning, at Emma’s request, in the Knightley’s living room. Emma had smirked to herself as they built it in silence – George may think he was too grown up for her, now he was fourteen, but he was never too old for a blanket fort. It was something they had done together for the last two years, whenever they were forced to spend time together. The fort would be erected in grim silence, with cushions and the suchlike solemnly passed back and forth, like a ritual. Then they would sit, sometimes talking (if the mood took them), more often than not in the same silence as before. It was all very strange, but very familiar._

_“Something I can do in the village. Like… teaching.”_

_“Why do you want to stay in the village?” George wrinkled his nose at the prospect, and Emma had to exercise her self-control not to shove him._

_“What’s wrong with the village?”_

_“Too small.” George said simply. “You’ll understand one day.”_

_Emma rolled her eyes at his patronising, worldly-wise tone, but let the matter drop. They sat in silence for a few moments longer, before Emma felt like speaking again._

_“I want to do something that Mum would be proud of.”_

_George didn’t reply straight away. Emma continued picking at the cushion, instantly regretting her words. Then, a tentative hand crept its way out of the blankets and rested on top of Emma’s. She looked at her companion, who was blushing, eyes wide._

_“I’m sure she would be proud of you, Emma. I know she would.”_

**Seven years earlier**

_“I think I’m actually dying.”_

_Emma heard a sardonic chuckle come from somewhere above the duvet and mustered all of her strength to throw the cover back angrily. “Don’t laugh at me, or I’ll cough on you.”_

_Looking alarmed, George stepped back a few paces. Emma nodded her head once, triumphantly, and managed to sit up._

_For the past five days, her head had been aching, her throat burning with all the coughs that forced their way out, and her skin was clammy and cold. The nausea had come on the second day, but had thankfully moved along once Emma had thrown up a few times. Now, she felt like she was over the worst – but she would be damned if she wasn’t going to milk every last drop of her incapacitation._

_“George…” Emma put on her best whining voice that she knew George could not stand, because he also knew that, if the voice did not get a response, it would keep going and going until he was driven semi-insane. He paused, about to leave the room, before sighing and turning back around._

_“What?”_

_“Will you stay here for a bit?”_

_“I just brought you soup!” He gestured incredulously to the steaming mug on Emma’s nightstand. She huffed and sank lower into the pillows._

_“But I’m bored.”_

_“And how am I going to help with that?” George argued, but sat down on the bed nonetheless, strategically positioned a few feet away from her._

_“I don’t know.” Emma pouted._

_“You know, I’ve got lots of homework to do, and –“_

_“Are you reading anything good?”_

_George Knightley was a big reader. Mr. Woodhouse was constantly passing novels down to him that would have gone to Emma, but Emma was never a huge fan of books. She preferred films, in all honesty._

_“Um…” George narrowed his eyes, as if she were testing him. “I’ve just started ‘Great Expectations’. It’s for my English class.”_

_“What’s it about?”_

_George gawked at her. “Are you… are you joking?”_

_Emma tried to shrug, but the movement caused her to start coughing again. George silently handed her a glass of water and waited for the fit to be over._

_“You’ve really never heard of ‘Great Expectations’?”_

_“Um…”_

_“You know Charles Dickens?”_

_“Not personally, but –“_

_“Oh, ha ha. It’s, like, his most famous book. Well, they’re all pretty famous.”_

_“So, what’s it about?”_

_“A boy who lives in poverty, then moves to London and gets really rich and mean.”_

_Emma wrinkled her nose. “Is that it?”_

_“What do you mean, ‘is that it’?”_

_“Sounds dull.”_

_“I can promise you, it’s not.” George got up from the bed in such a manner that it looked definite he was leaving, so Emma pushed her pride aside and asked: “Do you have it with you? I know you came here straight from sixth form.”_

_“Yes… why?”_

_“Can you…” Emma huffed, rolling her eyes at George’s expectant and smug expression. “Could you read some to me?”_

_She saw the corners of George’s mouth begin to form a smirk and blushed. “Oh, forget it, I’ll just watch a film instead.”_

_“No, hang on.” When Emma looked back, George was gone. She sipped the soup from her mug – it was good, too good to be from Mr. Woodhouse. Mrs. Knightley must have made it._

_George returned, book in hand, and sat back down resolutely on the bed. He frowned at Emma. “Are you sure you want to hear me droning on?”_

_“Don’t worry, if I start to dry-heave you can stop.”_

_George shook his head, smiling, and opened the book. Emma lay back on the pillows and shut her eyes._

_“’My father’s name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip…’”_

**Five years earlier**

_Emma looked in the mirror, about to apply another coat of mascara, and then wondered if it was disrespectful to wear too much makeup to a wake. She put the wand down and rested her cheek on her fist._

_Mr. Woodhouse hadn’t let her stay off school for the funeral. “Besides,” he had explained. “The Knightleys only wanted it to be small. Isabella only went to support John.”_

_Emma hadn’t been sure why her father had explained this to her – she hadn’t wanted to go to the funeral in the first place – but nodded her head and frowned sympathetically anyway._

_It was cold, colder than it should have been in April, as Emma and her father made the short walk over to Mrs. Knightley’s house. Emma knew that her father had never really hit it off with Mr. Knightley, and was usually loathe to be in the same room as him – but, somehow, she understood why he took her hand before they walked into the house._

_Once they were both in the house and had said some solemn greetings, Mr. Woodhouse left briefly to find the toilet, which Emma knew was code for ‘I’m-cold-and-unhappy-so-I’m-going-to-have-a-few-moments-of-solitude’. Emma smoothed down her sensible black skirt as she looked around; the Knightley house had never looked so depressing. People in black were stood everywhere, milling about by the sad-looking buffet, shaking their heads over glasses of cheap wine. Mrs. Knightley was nowhere to be seen._

_“She’s upstairs.”_

_Emma jumped at the voice behind her, then turned around to see George stood close to her._

_“Who’s upstairs?”_

_“My mum. Everyone’s been looking for her, but she said she wants to lie down for a bit.”_

_“Understandable.”_

_Emma quickly scanned George’s face for any sign of tear tracks or eye-bags, but he looked perfectly normal, just slightly morose._

_“It’s… good to see you, George.” It had been eight months since she had last waved him off to university, glad to see the back of him again. His blonde hair was shorter than Emma remembered, and his face looked thinner. He probably wasn’t eating enough good food, living the true student life._

_“Yeah, you too.” George looked at her slightly strangely, as if she was a light that was hurting his eyes. Emma looked away, feeling rather uncomfortable._

_“You know, I don’t feel sad.”_

_Emma turned back to her companion at this quiet confession. He seemed so casual about it, Emma felt shocked._

_“You don’t?”_

_“Not really.” He furrowed his brow, shook his head slightly before speaking again. “Maybe I will soon, I don’t know. I know he was my dad, but… I never liked him much, you know?”_

_Emma didn’t know. She liked her dad more than anybody else in the world._

_“He just made me feel…” George raised his hands slightly as he searched for the right word. “Small. I guess. Small, and insignificant. I know he made Mum feel the same way, too.”_

_Emma nodded slowly. “Maybe he wasn’t very happy.”_

_“Maybe. I’ll probably cry later. I don’t think it’s really hit me yet.”_

_“I didn’t feel sad straight away when my mum died.”_

_“You were only nine, no nine-year-old is supposed to know how they feel.”_

_“I guess.”_

_George opened his mouth again, as if to reply, then seemed to think better of it. Slightly awkwardly, he tapped Emma lightly on the arm._

_“It’s nice to see you, Em.”_

_Emma smiled at her companion, who felt more like a stranger than ever before._

_“You too, George.”_

**Two years earlier**

**_To: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:24 PM_ **

_I hope you’re eating properly out in Timbuktu._

****

**_From: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:32 PM_ **

_Portugal, and yes I’m eating properly, MUM. I’m more likely to be poisoned by your cooking than anything I eat out here_

****

**_To: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:34 PM_ **

_Say shit like that again and I’ll cancel your flight back_

****

**_From: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:35 PM_ **

_Go ahead, I’d love to stay here. You’d like it, too, lots of pretty beaches_

****

**_To: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:35 PM_ **

_Too hot for me, I’m guessing_

****

**_From: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:36 PM_ **

_Ah yes, I forgot that you’re a weirdo who likes the Autumn. How’s it going in Snoozeville anyway, have you died of boredom yet?_

**_To: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:37 PM_ **

_Evidently not as I’m still texting you, but I might pass away now just to spite you. All fine here_

**_From: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:40 PM_ **

_Not as salacious as I was hoping. Any village goss I should know about?_

**_To: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:41 PM_ **

_Since when have you been one for gossip?_

**_From: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:41 PM_ **

_Since I’m bored and, for some reason, miss Highbury slightly_

****

**_To: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:43 PM_ **

_Okay, so… Philip Elton has come back and started up a new kid club for the church, and he’s been coming into the café EVERY DAY because its directly opposite, which has been rather annoying. Isabella’s tearing her hair out because she hates being pregnant and she is HUGE now with the twins, that kind of punky guy called Robert who lives opposite me has just started working at the café, Wes got dumped by her girlfriend, Perry brutally dumped his boyfriend, and your mum is fine_

**_From: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:44 PM_ **

_Glad to hear that my mum was at the end of your list._

**_To: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:45 PM_ **

_Shut up, I only put her last because there was nothing to report. She misses you, but I can’t for the life of me think why_

**_From: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:47 PM_ **

_Ah, I’ve missed your hilarious comments, Emma_

**_To: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:48 PM_ **

_Just as I’ve missed your lectures?_

**_From: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:49 PM_ **

_Naturally. Stay out of trouble, please_

**_To: George_ **

**_Delivered 8:50 PM_ **

_You know me x_

****

**Ten months earlier**

_‘Dear Em,_

_You know I’m no good with words, so this will probably be an excruciating read whilst I look away in embarrassment until you eventually take pity on me and put the card down._

_Happy birthday, my love. Thinking about all the time we have had together, all the bickering and laughing and growing up that we have done, it made me quite emotional. To have known you for twelve of your precious twenty-one years has been a privilege. Yes, we have had many ups and downs, but we both know that they make us stronger. Without our differences, our challenges and our history, we would not work so well together. George and Emma – or, as you would prefer it, Emma and George._

_At first it felt silly writing something this intense and personal when we have only been ‘together’ for a month. But the other day, when I was trying to conjure up what I could give you for your birthday, I caught sight of you looking out of the window in your bedroom as I lay in your bed. It had just started to snow, and I saw your face light up in the white glow. For a second you looked just like the shy little girl I met all those years ago, and I realised again – you are it for me. I love you more than you could ever imagine, and my only regret is that neither of us realised it sooner._

_Anyway, before this gets so mushy that you feel nauseous, I shall stop. All you must know is that I love you – my heart is yours, my queen bee._

_George.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it obvious that i've been listening to johnny flynn's 'queen bee' on repeat?
> 
> hello friends,
> 
> PENULTIMATE CHAPTER!!! AHHHH!!
> 
> once again, so much love to all of you. writing this has been incredible, definitely my favourite fic so far, made only better by you wonderful readers. 
> 
> i will be truly sad when the final chapter is done!
> 
> <3


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> slight tw: smoking, discussions of illness

**December**

Emma’s eyes snapped open as she jolted awake. Her body had, for a moment, been falling rapidly, although she was safe and sound in her bed. It surely was not the most pleasant way to wake up.

She yawned deeply, before rolling over and stretching an arm out to grab her phone. It was seven o’clock, half an hour before her alarm was due to go off. She sighed and sat up, knowing that she had woken up too violently to fall back to sleep.

Emma struggled to remember the dream she had been having; all she could recall was running, a hand stretching out towards her, and then falling. She hadn’t felt scared, only…

She wasn’t sure.

Without thinking, Emma went to check her messages from him, before remembering that she would not have any. The usual pang of sadness and loss struck her, just like it did most mornings.

George Knightley couldn’t text her, because he no longer had Emma’s number.

It had all been very clinical – or, it was supposed to have been. After that last night, ‘the last time’, Emma had somehow managed to screw on her logical head – all she had wanted was for it to be as easy as possible for the both of them. So, the morning after, she had sat opposite George on the bed and planned everything out: they would both obviously be in the village at the same time as George prepared to leave, but he knew her work schedule and so was aware of when he could visit Mr. Woodhouse without fear of Emma being there. Well – that had lasted all of a few weeks, until Harriet had accidentally let it slip that George was lodging with a friend in London until he moved out of the country. Emma had pretended she didn’t see Robert’s raised eyebrows towards his oblivious girlfriend, and tried not to dwell on which friend George might be staying with. Was it a friend in the normal sense, or a ‘friend’, the type said with air-quotations and knowing smirks?

She had also suggested that he delete her number, so there would be no temptation of still talking and getting hung up. George would be able to move out in peace, book all his flights and plan for the future without the worry of being held back, whilst Emma would be able to care for her father and work at the café as usual.

What Emma hadn’t expected was to burst into tears halfway through explaining the plan, crawling across the bed to sob into the shoulder of the man that she loved so much, pressing her face into his shirt and trying to imprint his scent on her forever.

That morning had been more difficult than Emma had planned, after all.

_“Are you sure you’ll be able to resist if you see me around Highbury in the next few months?” George had quipped weakly after walking Emma downstairs. He was leaning against the doorframe, clad only in a thin t-shirt and plaid pyjama trousers, feet bare against the warm concrete. Emma was clutching a large shopping bag in her shaking hands, full of various clothes and objects that had been left in George’s flat. “Or am I just too devastatingly handsome, and you’ll have to jump me?”_

_Emma tried to smile, but only managed to wobble her lip as tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. George frowned and rubbed his face tiredly. “Em, don’t look at me like that. Please, don’t. I can’t deal with it.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Emma whispered. The morning sun was making her uncomfortably warm, her top sticking to her back. “I’m sorry, George.”_

_“I’ll come back to see you, Emma. I know you said that it wouldn’t work, but things can change. You said that yourself. We can be friends again, some day.”_

_“I’ll always be your friend, George.”_

The kitchen was cold when Emma finally dragged herself downstairs, and one quick touch of her palm to the radiator told her that the heating was not on. Shivering slightly in her dressing gown, Emma flicked it on at the wall, before deciding that a hot coffee was the best way to warm herself up. Usually, she would wait until she arrived at work to begin her caffeine intake – but this morning, for some reason, promised a particularly hard day.

Everything about the morning was cold – Emma left her coffee too long and had to swallow it lukewarm, grimacing. Her father was shivering in his sleep when she checked on him, so she made sure to tuck a few extra blankets under his chin. It took eons for the shower to warm up, giving Emma too much time to shiver under the frosty water and try not to think about the hands that used to card shampoo through her long hair before kissing her bare shoulder under the spray.

The sky was steely grey by the time Emma stepped out of the house at half eight, with no hint that the sun had risen, and the wind was relentlessly freezing, knifing into her skin as she walked against it. The scarf wrapped tight around her throat had been her mother’s – emerald green and “the finest cashmere”, as Mrs. Woodhouse used to joke. Emma had found out just after her mother passed away that she had bought it at a marketplace a few villages over for three pounds. Somehow, that made her love it even more.

_“I don’t know how much of this we should keep.”_

_Isabella sighed as she spoke, sitting down heavily with her back against the wardrobe. Emma fought the urge to put her thumb in her mouth, instead clasping her hands behind her back._

_Her parents’ bedroom was a mess. Mrs. Woodhouse had always been untidy, the complete opposite to her husband; whilst Mr. Woodhouse’s side of the bed was pin-neat, no empty mugs or discarded clothes, Mrs. Woodhouse’s side had always looked as though a small bomb had been detonated. Makeup strewn across her desk, piles of clothes on the velvet chair, jewellery discarded across every surface, books lying face-down and half-read on the floor. But now, now she was gone, it was even worse. Isabella had got it into her head that she had Emma were to divide her clothes – “I’m not selling them,” she had stated to John, who had suggested it. “We have to keep them.” – so every garment from every bit of space from the cupboards and wardrobe was on the floor in a huge pile, next to the defeated Isabella._

_Emma thought for a moment. “Can I keep that skirt?”_

_“Which skirt?”_

_“The one she wore to the garden party in the summer.” Emma stepped over her sister to paw through the mess, eventually holding up a long, white maxi-skirt, patterned with green flowers._

_Isabella smiled faintly. “Last summer. Can you believe that was only six months ago?”_

_Emma shook her head. It was a difficult thing to comprehend, the idea that her mother had been sick for most of Emma’s life and she hadn’t known about it. Her parents had more secrets than she could have ever imagined._

_“Keep that skirt, then. I don’t like it much anyway.” Isabella leaned over to keep looking through the garments. “It won’t fit you for a while though, you know.”_

_“I know.”_

_There was silence for a while, broken only by the sound of rustling clothes._

_“What about this?”_

_Emma looked at her sister, who was holding up a dark green scarf._

_“You want this? Green looks nice with your hair.”_

_“Mum’s cashmere scarf!” Emma grinned and took it from Isabella, immediately wrapping it around her neck. It took her a moment to realise that her sister was laughing._

_“What? What’s funny?”_

_“Cashmere? Oh, Emma. I didn’t think you still believed that.”_

_“Believed what?”_

_“That was a joke, the scarf’s made of wool. As if we could afford cashmere.”_

_“Oh.”_

_Isabella turned away again, shaking her head. Emma frowned, then pressed her face into the material. It smelt warm and flowery and familiar. Like her mother._

Surprise, surprise, the café was just as cold as Emma had expected. The first thing she did after shutting the door behind her was to flick on the heating in the hope that it would warm up by the time the first customers trickled in. Thankfully, business had begun to slowly pick up again. It had been Emma’s idea to gently suggest to Miss Bates that they should perhaps change the menu, keep up with the big businesses like Starbucks and perhaps introduced a themed menu for Autumn, eventually turning into a Christmas selection. As a result, Emma herself had had to sit down with the kitchen staff and come up with new cuisine (all allergy-tested, obviously) and some new coffee recipes, including a gingerbread and hazelnut mix that was perfectly Autumnal.

“Don’t you think people might notice that Starbucks had this idea first?” Robert had queried, his eyebrows raised in amusement, as Emma had handed yet another of her newest brews to a customer.

“I hope you’re not suggesting that I stole anything, Bobby,” Emma quipped back. “I only… borrowed. And the recipe is completely different, I’m sure.”

“Whatever you say.” Robert had smiled and turned back to the coffee machine.

After working for a few years as nothing more than a pot-washer at the café, Emma had finally decided that it was time for Robert to move to the front. He had been reluctant, happy to stay working with what he knew, but Emma had persisted: “You don’t have any culinary training, so there’s no way you’ll move into the kitchen anytime soon, and working at the front in the café is so easy I could train a baby to do it.”

“Thanks very much.” Robert had grumbled, looking affronted until Emma rolled her eyes and dragged him out of the kitchen.

“You know what I mean.”

She had also brought up the fact that when she took over as manager (as Miss Bates was so fond of reminding her), they would need more floor staff. This had convinced the ever-considerate Robert, so he had been working on the front with Emma since the end of Autumn.

Of course, this promotion that wasn’t really a promotion had excited Harriet beyond her wildest dreams, and she, for the past few months, had taken great pleasure in visiting her boyfriend and best friend even more frequently at work, occasionally bringing a couple of her university friends in for a coffee and a cake, but usually content to just stand and natter for half an hour or so.

It had been on one of these occasions that Harriet had let slip the fact that George was in London, obliviously babbling away whilst Robert tried to shut her up.

Still shivering in the morning cold of the café, Emma shook her head as she swept the floor, vowing to put George Knightley from her mind.

The morning routine was so familiar to Emma that it was almost like muscle memory: sweep the floor, arrange the chairs, disinfect the tables, turn on the coffee machine, wipe the surfaces, set up the till, place the tip jar on the counter, turn on the music –

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

The speaker crackled to life and immediately Emma rolled her eyes.

_“Oh, the weather outside is frightful…”_

Miss Bates must have set up the Christmas playlist the day before, Emma concluded. The checked the date on the clock: December 3rd. December 3rd, and already the Christmas songs were playing.

Emma sat down heavily at one of the tables and rested her head in her hands. She used to love Christmas. Now it just made her sad.

_“George.”_

_He didn’t move._

_“George.”_

_Emma punctuated his name with a light poke to his bare arm. In response, the sleeping George groaned and turned his head slightly. She smiled, and leaned forward so her arms were folded across his chest, her chin resting on top._

_“Wake up. George!”_

_Emma’s loud voice finally made the man jolt awake. George blinked blearily, before settling his gaze on the girl resting on his chest. He smiled sleepily._

_“Morning.”_

_“It’s Christmas.”_

_George yawned slightly, then reached out a hand to card through Emma’s hair; she pushed her head into his palm and shut her eyes._

_“It snowed again overnight.” She whispered._

_“Oh yeah? Did you look outside?”_

_“No, but you can just tell. Shush, for a moment.”_

_George lay still. “I can’t hear anything.”_

_“Exactly. When it snows overnight, the whole morning is still and silent. The light is softer, and you can’t hear a thing.”_

_She felt his chuckle, deep inside his chest, before his voice rumbled again._

_“Merry Christmas, Emma.”_

_“Merry Christmas, George.”_

When Emma thought about the previous Christmas, she couldn’t feel happy. The Church service, walking back to the cottage with the kids, smooching secretly in the kitchen with George, watching ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, heading back to the cottage in the morning for presents and Bucks Fizz under the tree. They were good memories, wonderful memories – but even as Emma reminisced, she knew that no Christmas would ever be the same.

The songs were grating on her, and it wasn’t even nine in the morning. Dean Martin had moved swiftly onto Paul McCartney, and it was making Emma’s head hurt. She braced herself for yet another long day.

*

“Have you got a cigarette?”

Robert looked up in surprise. He was sat on one of the upturned buckets out the back of the café; The café had quietened down after the lunchtime slog, and Emma had been hovering in the back office, waiting for Robert to finish his phone call, before marching out with her query. He smiled as if he wasn’t sure whether or not she was joking.

“Um… yeah.” Still looking bemused, Robert reached into his pocket and pulled out of a pouch of tobacco. He started rolling a cigarette as Emma leaned against the doorframe.

“Emma, since when have you smoked?”

“I don’t.” Emma replied shortly. “But I want to try it.”

“Okay…” She watched his fingers slow down as he drew out the word. “Why?”

“Does there have to be a reason?” She snapped. “I just want to try it.”

Robert didn’t reply, only raised his eyebrows and continued rolling. After a minute or so, he handed the cigarette to Emma. Stubbornly, she placed it between her lips; he raised a lighter and clicked it. She inhaled, and immediately felt like her lungs might explode.

Robert shook his head. “Are you trying not to cough?”

“No,” Emma managed to squeak out. “I’m fine.”

“Emma –“

“Oh, God, that is disgusting.” Emma gave up, holding out the cigarette to Robert. He took it and shook his head whilst she coughed, red in the face.

“Smoking isn’t good for you, Em.”

“Says the smoker.”

“Well, I wouldn’t recommend starting. It’s a nasty habit.”

They were both quiet for a moment as Emma tried to recover. Then, Robert spoke again, blowing out smoke with his words. “Why did you want one? You’ve never shown any interest in smoking, ever.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Emma groaned, sitting down on one of the dilapidated chairs. “I just need… a change, or something.”

“You could always steal another Starbucks coffee recipe? It’s nearly Christmas, after all.”

“Ha ha. I just… I don’t know, Bob.” Emma sighed, wrapping her black jumper tighter around her body. “I’m having a weird day.”

“Is it bec- oh, wait. No.”

Emma cocked her eyebrow. “What?”

“No, I –“

“Robert, what? Is it because of what?”

Robert sighed and threw the cigarette butt down, deliberately avoiding Emma’s insistent gaze for a moment. He looked as though he wasn’t going to speak again, so Emma knew she had to make him.

She raised her voice. “Rob –“

“Okay! God, fine, just don’t shout at me.” He sighed again, looking like some world-weary widow character. “I was just wondering if today was more difficult than usual because… because George is leaving today. But then I remembered that you wouldn’t know when he was leaving, and he deliberately asked me not to tell you, so now I’m just an idiot.”

Emma didn’t reply. She looked down at her shoes.

“Em? Woodhouse, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think.”

Today, then, Emma thought. It was happening today.

She took a deep breath and smiled at Robert in a way that she hoped was light, breezy and convincing. One look at his expression told Emma that she probably looked the opposite of those things.

“Do you… do you, um, want to talk about it?”

“What’s there to talk about?” Emma kept her voice measured and light – she was okay, this was all okay.

“Like, the fact that you might miss him? And that you’re upset that he’s leaving?” Robert paused, looking like he was weighing up whether or not to continue.

“And maybe you regret staying?”

“Rob.” Emma cut him off sharply. “Stop. I’m fine, it’s all fine. It was a mutual decision. It’s been, what, almost three months? Obviously, I m-miss him –” Emma widened her eyes as her voice dipped out of her control, her throat suddenly feeling tight. Robert had the good grace to look away as she cleared her throat and continued. “Obviously, I’m going to miss him, but it’s okay. We both wanted different things, and that’s… fine. It’s all fine.”

Robert smiled gently. “Sounds like it’s fine.”

Emma laughed quietly, remembering how nice Robert had been to her when Elton had cornered her outside the café last year. He was a good friend.

“Come on,” Robert stood up, cracking his knees. “We ought to get back.”

Emma sighed but resolutely stood up, following the tall man back into the office. “Yes, I’m sure the world and his wife has decided to grace Hartfield today, we need to rush back immediately.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Woodhouse.”

*

The young mother who often frequented the café smiled apologetically at Emma from a corner table by the window. Her baby, who could not have been more than eight months old, was grizzling incessantly. It wasn’t a full-blown scream yet, but it was certainly working itself up to a tantrum of sorts. Emma smiled weakly as a way of saying ‘it’s okay, I understand’ – but secretly all she wanted to do was wheel the pram out of the café and into the nearby nursery, so someone else would have to hear the irritating noise.

_“Do you still think about having kids someday?”_

_George turned his attention away from the children and looked at Emma in surprise. They were sat together on the bench that was nearest to the small playpark, watching Little John, Henry and Bella. Isabella and John were back for another (blissfully short) visit, clouded with tension and passive-aggressive comments as usual, and had dumped the kids on Emma and George for an afternoon whilst they took Mr. Woodhouse to the cinema. Where Isabella had got it into her head that Mr. Woodhouse would enjoy the cinema, Emma did not know – George had bitterly suggested that it was her and John’s way of spending more time with Mr. Woodhouse (as he had so often lectured them to do) without actually having to talk to him or each other. Either way, Emma was perfectly content to spend a sunny afternoon with her lovely boyfriend and her nieces and nephews._

_The kids were delighted as well – Emma had a bad habit of spoiling them rotten. They had already devoured an ice cream each from the truck (George had helped Bella with her cone, as she had gradually grown more and more sticky as she ate) and had spent almost an hour throwing graped to the ducks. “Grapes?” Little John had wrinkled his nose when George handed him the bag of cut-up fruit. “Ducks eat bread.”_

_“Bread sticks in their tummies and makes them sick,” George had explained patiently. “Grapes are much better for them.”_

_Little John had revelled in this new-found knowledge and ran off to hurl grapes at some poor unsuspecting ducks. Now, the three were running around the playpark, climbing and kicking and laughing. Adorably, Emma could see that Henry was holding his little sister’s hand as she slowly and cautiously slid down the small metal slide._

_George considered for a moment before replying. “Yes, I suppose so. I’d love to be a dad.”_

_“You’d be a great father.”_

_And Emma knew that she was right. George had such a paternal side to him, a side that constantly looked out for those around him, so much so that he often forgot to look after himself when he was busy helping others. His generosity and kind spirit always made Emma think that, one day, he would be a fantastic father._

_“I’d only be worried that I’d end up like my dad. Fuck the kids up.”_

_Emma frowned. “You aren’t fucked up. I know your dad was a dick, but you’ve turned out fine.”_

_“But look at John. He’s a carbon copy of my dad. It’s just luck that I haven’t ended up the same way.”_

_“So, you’d be a great dad, then. Because you know where your own father went wrong.”_

_“I suppose.”_

_Mr. Woodhouse had died when Emma was sixteen and John was twenty; he had suffered from a severe stroke early in the year and had rapidly deteriorated before dying peacefully at home. Emma had seen George cry a few times in their friendship – when he had badly scraped his knee falling off his bike aged fourteen, when his first girlfriend in high school dumped him (although he had pretended to Emma that there was some dust in his eye) – and, more recently, when Emma had roped him into watching ‘When Harry Met Sally’ on a rainy Spring afternoon; Emma had heard a few badly-suppressed sniffles from above her head when Billy Crystal began monologuing about spending the rest of his life with the person he loved at the end of the film. However, not once had she seen him cry about his father. George had been oddly stony at the funeral, walking around in a bemused, slightly dazed fashion, as though he had wandered into the wrong event. Still only a silly teenager, Emma hadn’t paid it much attention, occasionally patting him on the arm when they were together and telling him that she was “there if he wanted to talk”. Except he never talked about it, or hardly ever, at least._

_“I just think about the kids, sometimes,” George continued, gazing towards the playpark. “And I feel bad for them. They’re too young to know how unhappy their mum is and how much of a prick their dad is. Growing up, you think your parents are perfect, right? Infallible, practically superheroes. But then you grow up and realise that your dad is a… controlling, unhappy, angry little man. And that’s all he is to me now. That’s all he ever will be.”_

_Emma was silent. She took his hand and squeezed it gently. “You’re a better man than him, George. You’re going to be a great father one day.”_

_George frowned momentarily, still looking ahead of him, then turned to Emma. “What about you? Still a no-go?”_

_Emma felt her heart speed up. “I- I don’t know.”_

_“You know, you can still be Cool Auntie Em and have kids of your own.”_

_“George, I…”_

_“Sorry, I don’t want you to…” George trailed off for a moment, looking down at their entwined hands. “This isn’t a talk about me and you becoming parents, okay? You’re twenty, Em, and I can barely look after myself. I was just asking, okay?”_

_“Yeah. I know.” Emma smiled, trying to take a deep breath to calm herself down. She loved Henry, Little John and Bella more than anything, and in theory the idea of having her own children was… nice. But the practicality of it, the permanence and responsibility of being a parent – it was a terrifying thought._

_“I wouldn’t want my kids to grow up to be conceited and selfish, like their mum.” Emma meant this quip to come out jokingly, light and breezy – but George frowned._

_“Em, stop it.”_

_“I was –“_

_“You know that you’ve grown up a lot. How many times can I remind you of that? You are the most generous, warm person I’ve ever met. And, if you ever do decide to have children, with me, or, or with whoever,” he moved forward and kissed her forehead slightly. “You would be a perfect mother.”_

That had been around Springtime if Emma remembered correctly. It had been slightly chilly out, but sunny, so George had lent her his jacket.

Far before her father’s accident, when everything had gone to shit.

The baby had stopped working up to a tantrum and had finally grizzled itself to sleep, much to the relief of both Emma and the young mother. Emma watched her shut her eyes briefly before taking out a well-thumbed book, immediately becoming engrossed in the story, occasionally pausing her reading to sip her latte and rock the pram gently.

Emma watched the serenity on the woman’s face, and wondered how busy her homelife must be that she sought refuge within the tiny walls of Hartfield. She was quickly becoming a regular, Emma realised, as she brought herself and the pram into the café at least once a week in the afternoon.

The baby would probably grow up before Emma’s eyes over the years.

She shook her head and stood up straight. Now that was a scary thought – working in Hartfield long enough to see a new generation of people arrive in the village.

It’s what you decided, a little voice in the back of Emma’s head reminded her. You chose to stay, remember?

*

It was almost the end of her shift, and Emma had tried everything over the last hour. She turned it off, only to switch it back on again immediately. She put it at the far end of the café, out of reach, before giving up and sheepishly picking it up again. She had spent half an hour mindlessly scrolling through Instagram to take her mind off it, before realising that she had migrated back to her contact list.

Her phone was mocking her. Emma sighed. She had to call.

After a quick scan around the café to see that there were only two customers left, two old ladies who were deep into their carrot cakes and conversation, Emma clicked on the contact she needed.

The phone only went for a few rings before there was an excited and familiar voice on the other end of the line.

“Hi, Em! You okay?”

Emma shut her eyes and smiled at the sound of Harriet’s voice; it was so refreshing to hear someone this happy and cheerful, almost as though Emma could suck some happiness into her own psyche just from hearing her friend’s voice.

“Hi, darling. I’m… I’m fine. At work, bored, as usual. What are you up to?”

“Just at home with Mum, we’ve been doing some early Christmas shopping, and then later I’m going round to Bobby’s, and –“

“Harriet.” Emma cut her off impatiently; vaguely, she felt bad for ringing her friend just to talk about herself, but quickly recovered and focused on what she needed. “Sorry. I just, I was just ringing to, um, I was wondering if –“

“Are you okay? You sound funny.”

“No, I’m fine, I’m fine.” Emma shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling slightly ridiculous. “I just wanted to… I wanted to ask if you know where George is flying to tonight.”

Silence. Emma heard Harriet swallow.

“Harriet?”

“Oh, Em, I… I’m not sure…”

“Harriet, you’re a terrible liar. You know where he’s going.”

“Um…” the poor girl sounded absolutely stricken, but now Emma had hold of the smallest morsel of information, she wasn’t going to let go.

“Harriet, please.”

“Rob said I shouldn’t tell you because you’ll get upset.”

“He’s not your keeper, Harriet, and besides he’s the one who told me that George was leaving today.”

“Oh, gosh.” Harriet sounded on the verge of tears; Emma didn’t speak for a moment, holding her breath, until the other girl piped up again. “Why do you want to know?” She suddenly sounded hopeful. “Are you going with him?”

Emma felt her chest tighten. “No. I’m not. I just – I just want to know, okay? Is that okay? I won’t get upset, I promise, I’m over it. I just want to know where he’s going.”

Harriet sighed pensively before replying. “He’s flying from Heathrow tonight. He’s going to Portugal, he told Rob that he’s found some work over there, so he’s planning to stay for a few months before moving on.”

“Moving onto where?”

“I’m not sure. No, honestly, I don’t know. That’s all I know.”

“And Rob told you this?”

“Yeah, they went for a drink a few weeks ago. Why didn’t you just ask him?”

Because he’s more stubborn than you and wouldn’t give in so easily, Emma wanted to say. Instead, she replied: “I just didn’t think to, I guess.”

“Okay.” Emma could practically hear Harriet biting her thumb nervously. “Are you okay, Em? And before you just say it’s fine, like you always do, just… think, for a moment. Are you _actually_ okay with all of this?”

Emma paused.

Of course she wasn’t okay with ‘all of this’, of course she fucking wasn’t But she would be damned if she was going to admit to being wrong.

“Yes, honestly. I’m doing okay.”

George probably wasn’t even thinking about her that much.

“You know he talked about you? To Bobby, I mean.”

Emma felt her heart do a backflip and her stomach lurch. She took another deep, steadying breath and tried to keep her voice measured. “Oh yeah? What did he say?”

“Um…” Harriet sounded unsure, and Emma rolled her eyes.

“God, Harriet, you can’t tell me that and then not give me anything else.”

“Okay, okay. He, um, got upset, apparently. Rob said he didn’t cry but he looked like he was going to. Just saying that he, uh, he missed you. And he wished that you could see London, because you would love it, even in the tiny little flat. And that he wanted to see you but that he knew it wouldn’t – oh, Em! Emma, don’t cry, please don’t cry.”

Emma desperately tried to choke down a sob; she saw one of the old ladies sat at the occupied table look over in concern, so she turned her back to the café and sniffled down the phone, taking a few shuddering breaths to try and stop the tears from falling. When Emma finally felt like she could speak without falling apart, she realised that Harriet was still anxiously babbling down the phone.

“- oh, I knew I shouldn’t have said anything, I should have listened to Bob, because now you’re upset and crying and that’s the last thing I wanted, and George said to Bob that he didn’t want you to be upset, shit, Emma, I’m sorry, I’m such an –“

“Harriet,” Emma gasped, wiping her eyes. “Stop. It’s okay, I’m fine now. Thank you for telling me.”

“Jesus, Em.” Harriet sighed. “Not to be, like, too dramatic, but… do you think you’ll ever get over him?”

Emma smiled sadly and shut her eyes.

“I don’t know, Harriet. I just don’t know.”

*

_“Hey, Em. I, uh, I know that you told – asked me, sorry, to delete your number, and I will, I promise. I just wanted to talk to you one more time. Well, not talk to you, because, well, this is a voicemail. Obviously. Talk… at you? Sorry, you know what I mean. I’m rambling. I just… God, this is hard. I’m kind of glad that you can’t reply to this, because either you would make fun of how much I’m rambling on, or one of us would start crying and I’d never finish talking. Well, I might start crying in a bit, who knows? Maybe you will. If you cry, I’m sorry. I was thinking, earlier, about the times I’ve made you cry. Like, when we were younger and I told you to leave me alone because my friends were round, and I thought I was too cool to have a little girl hanging around. My, God, I got a bollocking from my dad for that. And when you got hammered at your prom and I had to pick you up, remember that? I made you feel so bad about it on the way home that you started crying and then threatened to jump out of the car. Remember how you said you were staying at Dixie’s house, and I had to sneak you into your own house and make sure you chugged a pint of water before you passed out? You’re so funny when you’re drunk, Em, but you’ve had some proper drunken tantrums, haven’t you? Basically, I… I hate seeing you cry. It breaks my heart. And you crying in my room yesterday, trying to convince me that you were okay with us breaking up, sobbing into my shirt but not letting me make you feel better… it was horrible. I think of all the stupid arguments that we’ve had over the years, all the times I’ve made you cry, or you’ve made me angry, and it makes me hate myself. All I want to do now is cherish you and love you, and now I can’t even do that. But, as much as I hate thinking about our fights, I would give my left arm just to have an argument with you, right now. To just be stood in the café, passive-aggressively stacking chairs whilst you ignore me and then come up with some creative insult so you can flounce off to the back office and pretend you hate me. We were always pretending, weren’t we? I know I was. Every time I got on my high horse and called you immature or selfish or whichever nasty insult I decided to pick that day, I knew in my heart that I didn’t mean it. And I think – I hope – that you never truly hated me, even when we were little. We were both such annoying kids, don’t you think? And yet… if we had hated each other that much, we never would have spent so much time together. Yes, I know, that our families were close. But I never would have done so much birdwatching with your dad, or visited you so much after school, if I didn’t care about you. Because I’ve always loved you, Em, since before I knew what love was. It’s always been you, it had to be you. You’re probably crying now, aren’t you? Well, wipe your eyes, my love. Your beautiful eyes. Dry them off and smile. You’ll be okay. We both will. I’ll stop soon, this voicemail is far too long and will probably take up every ounce of storage on your phone. But, before I go, just know this: if you change your mind, if you doubt what you’ve chosen for even a second, I’ll be here. Wherever I am, you will be welcome. I won’t be able to move on from you, Em, not for a while, at least. If you… if you change your mind, just say the word. Okay? Please. Please, just… yeah. That’s it. I really ought to go, before I start crying too. Dry your eyes, Emma. I love you. Bye.”_

It was a voicemail that she knew almost off by heart. Emma had fully intended to listen to her beloved Chet Baker on the short, freezing walk home, but her fingers had instead drifted to that damned message again. It no longer made her cry every time she listened to it; it only made her feel sort of… numb. Like it was a reminded that she made the wrong decision.

Was it the wrong decision?

Numbness had been Emma’s go-to emotion for the past few months. At first it was grief and sadness, crying into Harriet’s lap and hovering her finger over the ‘unblock’ option next to George’s icon, willing herself to tell him, come back, please come back, I need you, and you need me!

But she never did, and so the days became monotonous.

Emma knew that her father felt guilty. He was back on his feet now, able to shuffle around downstairs, make his own dinner and so on. Emma was still adamant that he kept up with his exercises, and she took him on a walk around the park at least twice a week, bundled up to his ears in his coat, just to keep him active. And she was happy for his company, always happy to spend time with her favourite person in the world. But in the evenings, when it got darker and colder, when the front door would usually open and the familiar figure would stride inside the cottage with a warm smile and some collection of ingredients for dinner – that was when Mr. Woodhouse would grow quiet and look at his youngest daughter with heart-breaking guilt in his eyes.

He wated her to go, but at the same time desperately needed her to stay.

Emma pulled her coat tightly around her body again, battling against the cold evening wind. The café clean-up had taken longer than expected, as Robert had to leave early for more band practice. Although the last record deal had fallen through, he had excitedly told Emma the month before that they had a huge gig coming up that would hopefully put them more on the scene, as well as a local radio interview. Robert had been reluctant to leave the café close to Emma, but she had practically shoved him out the door to go and hit his drums. She also just wanted some peace and quiet, and the empty café was the best way to get that, at least.

The weather had not picked up throughout the day; Emma’s journey home was almost as cold as it had been that morning.

She took out her earphones and shoved them in her pocket. That voicemail. It was haunting her.

As usual, his face drifted into her mind’s eye. His blonde, curly hair. His dimpled cheeks dusted with golden stubble. His eyes, his beautiful eyes.

_“Maybe if I loved you less, I could talk about it more.”_

_“You love me?”_

_“More than you’ll ever know._

How long had it been since George had gone for that drink with Robert? A few weeks? A lot could have changed, Emma thought. Maybe he didn’t miss her as much now, maybe he stopped breaking his heart whenever he thought of her. Maybe he didn’t even think of her. Maybe he’d met someone in London. Someone outgoing and non-committal, who would follow him to Portugal. Someone he would bring back to the village briefly, before up and leaving again.

Maybe.

Emma turned the corner onto her road, shivering as she was hit with a fresh gust of cold wind. The sky was velvety blue, almost black, and completely starless. The moon was a gaunt sliver, hanging above the houses in front of her.

Thankfully, the cottage was warm when Emma finally wrestled her way in. She blew on her hands and rubbed them together, toeing off her shoes.

“Dad! I’m – Jesus Christ!”

A small body hurtled itself into her torso, followed by two other, even smaller bodies. Emma nearly fell over from the shock; when she had recovered, she looked down to see Bella, Little John and Henry clinging onto her legs and middle, grinning up at her.

“Auntie Em!”

“We’ve been waiting forever and ever and –“

Still bemused, Emma bent down and picked Bella up, balancing the child on her hip. She looked at the girl’s rosy, grinning face. “What are you three doing here?”

“Mummy brought us.” Little John explained solemnly, his hand slipping into Emma’s free one. “We came in a car with a light on the top and a nice man driving.”

“A… do you mean a taxi?” Emma queried, her brow furrowed.

“Yes,” Henry piped up. “One of those.”

“Right, okay.” Emma shifted Bella and tried to clear her head. “Come on, let’s go in, it’s cold by the door. Where’s Mummy and Grandad?”

“Kitchen.”

“Is Daddy not with you?” Emma asked as Henry led them through to the kitchen, seemingly taking his role very seriously.

“He wasn’t at home,” Bella whispered into Emma’s ear. “We got in the car without him.”

Emma furrowed her brow. That was odd. Maybe he was still at work?

As she entered the kitchen with the kids, Emma gently put Bella down, who immediately ran to her mother and scrambled into her lap instead. Isabella was at the kitchen table opposite Mr. Woodhouse, both with steaming, apparently untouched mugs of what looked like coffee in front of them.

“I hope that’s decaf,” Emma said nervously, patting her father on the shoulder. “No caffeine after three o’clock, we agreed.”

Mr. Woodhouse smiled vaguely. Emma looked at her sister curiously, who for once didn’t look snide or angry or pissed off. She was looking down into her lap, her mouth puckered up into a small frown and her eyes shut. She looked sad.

Something was off, Emma could feel it. “What’s going on?”

Immediately, Isabella seemed to spring to life. “Kids, go and get your pyjamas on. Boys, help your sister. You can come and have some warm milk afterwards. Don’t wake the twins up, okay?”

The children all nodded and clattered off u the stairs, their little feet pounding overhead. Emma sat down at the table cautiously. She looked at her father – he was frowning, his brows knitted together.

“Has something happened?” Emma could hear the frantic note in her voice. “Where’s John? What’s going on?”

Isabella took a deep breath and tucked a piece of dark hair behind her ear, almost reflexively. Emma could see that she wasn’t wearing any makeup, an unusual choice for the highly-strung woman that Emma knew. She shut her eyes again briefly; Emma looked at her father, who looked away. She was beginning to get irritated with all the silence, until Isabella finally spoke.

“I’ve left John.”

Emma opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She struggled to find the words for a moment.

“I… shit, really?”

Isabella’s head snapped up. “No, Emma, this is a huge practical joke and I’ve dragged my kids here on a school night for a laugh.”

“Okay, okay. Jesus. I just…” Absurdly, Emma almost felt like laughing. She and George discussed this possibility constantly, concluding that it was only a matter of time and place until Isabella finally had enough. But now… It was real.

“I can’t believe you finally did it.”

For a moment, Isabella looked like she might scream. Then, finally, she smiled softly and tentatively took Emma’s hand across the table. “Thank you. Thank you, Em.” She sighed and then, bizarrely, laughed out loud. Mr. Woodhouse jumped. “Can you believe it? I’m single, I have five kids, I’m living with my father, and I’m only just thirty.”

“So this is – wait.” It took Emma a moment for her brain to catch up, everything was happening so quickly. “You’re living… with Dad?”

“She’s going to stay here for a while,” Mr. Woodhouse replied softly. “With the kids. It’ll be tight, but we’ll make it work.”

“John’s not happy, obviously.” Isabella said in an almost offhand way. “But fuck it. He’s miserable whatever he does, so this won’t make much difference. I’ve already got a good lawyer, and I want nothing more to do with him. I should never have married him in the first place.”

“Quite right, darling.” Mr. Woodhouse murmured.

Emma shook her head. “So… so this is actually happening?”

“Yes, Emma.”

“So… a divorce, a proper, real divorce?”

“Yes.”

“Custody battle?”

“Assumedly.”

“And you’re… staying here?”

“For the time being.” Isabella said impatiently. She sipped her coffee. “Turns out I really was right about you getting the good Knightley. You won’t be divorcing him any time soon.”

Emma sat back in her chair; her heart was suddenly racing under her jumped, and her palms were beginning to sweat.

“Emma, love?” Mr. Woodhouse peered at his daughter concernedly. “Are you okay?”

“You’re… you’re staying here… with Dad…” Emma repeated faintly. Isabella blinked.

“Yes, I just said that.”

Emma swallowed and looked at her father.

The penny finally dropped; he smiled and took her hand.

“She’s staying here, Emma. She’s staying.”

Isabella wrinkled her nose. “Are you two talking in code? What’s going on?”

Emma pressed a trembling hand to her mouth and looked her father straight in the eyes.

“Dad, I –“

“Emma. Go.”

Like a gun had been fired, Emma stood up. Her body wanted to race out of the door, run down the street, sprint down the motorway and leap into the airport, not stopping until she found him. But Emma found that she couldn’t stop talking, even as the tears began running down her cheeks.

“You know, if I go right now, I won’t be gone forever, because I might not even find him, and then I’d have to get his number back and book a flight which would take days if not weeks, and if I did find him and he cancelled the flight then we would be coming back anyway because we can’t live at an airport, so this isn’t me saying goodbye, because I don’t want to leave you on your own, except you wont be on your own, and –“

“Emma!” Mr. Woodhouse chuckled throatily, his own eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Go, my dear. Please, go. Quickly!”

Emma raced out of the kitchen as fast as her legs would carry her and shoved on her shoes, her heart pounding. Faintly, she could hear Isabella’s incredulous voice.

“What the hell is going on? I just got here, and she’s leaving already?”

The cold air hit Emma’s body once again through her thin jumper like a bucket of ice. Shivering, she pulled out her phone and nastily crossed the deserted road.

“Pick up, pick up, pick –“

“Woodhouse?”

“Rob! Are you in, please tell me you’re in?”

“Yeah, I’m with Harriet, where are you? What’s happened?”

“Look out your window.”

Emma saw the curtains at the top window of Robert’s house twitch, and two familiar faces were suddenly peering down at her bemusedly.

“You both need to come down, right now!” Emma knew that she sounded vaguely hysterical, but couldn’t stop herself. “It’s urgent.”

“On it.” Robert said grimly before hanging up. Two long minutes later, he and Harriet were rushing down the drive towards Emma.

“Em, what’s happened?” Harriet was chewing her lip worriedly, shivering in the cold.

“Harriet, what time did you say George’s flight is?”

“Um, um… ten o’clock? Yes, it’s a late one, it’s at ten.”

Emma checked her phone. “It’s half seven. Rob, we need to use your car.”

He blinked. “My car?”

“Yes, yes! Your car, I need you to drive me to Heathrow airport right now, we’re only an hour and a bit away.”

“I… why?”

“Oh, for –“ Emma felt like tearing her hair out. “Because the man that I’m in love with is about to board a plane to Portugal without me, and I can’t let him do that!”

There was a loaded silence.

Suddenly, Harriet squealed and grabbed Emma’s arm.

“Oh, my God! A last minute airport dash! It’s like we’re in a romcom!”

*

Emma was obsessively twisting her fingers together, staring out of the frosty window at the lights whizzing past on the motorway.

“How far away are we?”

“Ten minutes. Only ten minutes, we’re fine, it’s all fine.”

Emma could practically feel Harriet vibrating with excitement and nerves in the backseat of the car, as she had been for the whole drive. Robert had driven mostly in silence, grimly pressing his foot down and going probably too fast for the motorway speed limit.

Emma felt like her heart might leap out of her chest at any moment.

“What changed your mind?” Harriet spoke straight into Emma’s ear, making her jump. She twisted in her seat to meet the gaze of her friend, her adorable, dorky, loving best friend.

“Isabella’s left John.”

“What?” Harriet gawped. “No way! Finally.”

“She’s brought the kids to stay with my dad.” Before Harriet could reply again, Emma continued hurriedly. “I’m not just dumping him, though. He’s recovered really well, and he’ll be happy to have the kids around, and if I find George then we might be able to go back to the village and put something in place before –“

“Em,” Harriet spoke in uncharacteristically soft tones. “It’s okay. Nobody thinks that you’re dumping your dad. You’ve been so selfless, so caring, but I know that he would want you to –“

“Heathrow!” Robert suddenly bellowed. “We’re here!”

Emma jerked around just in time to see the sign for the airport whiz past the car. She went to twist her hands together again, before a small, dry hand reached over and clasped one of them. Harriet smiled encouragingly at her friend and squeezed her hand over the back of the seat.

“Time?” Robert asked, taking on the air of a Bond-esque hero in a race against time.

“Um, it’s just past nine!” Harriet piped up.

Robert furrowed his brow. “Okay, he’ll be checking in soon. You’ll need to hurry.”

“Oh, God,” Emma suddenly felt more flustered than ever, her heart and stomach tying themselves in knots. “I didn’t think this through, I won’t even be able to find him, he’ll already have put his bags through, how will I get past security?”

“You know how unorganised George is,” Harriet cut across her friend. “He’s probably only just got to the airport, there’s no way he has his bags through yet.”

“I’ll text him,” Robert suggested. “I won’t tell him it’s you, but I’ll tell him to hang around for a bit.”

“Won’t that just be confusing?”

“We’re here!”

Robert shouted so loud that Emma jumped, before swerving the car to a stop in a small parking spot. Emma took a deep, shuddering breath.

“You’ve got this.” Harriet squeezed her hand again before releasing it. Robert gave an encouraging, if not slightly maniacal, smile.

“Okay.”

“Go for it, Woodhouse. We’ll be waiting for you.”

Shaking, Emma stepped out of the car. It was even colder than it had been before, but she hardly felt it. Her heart felt like it might explode at any moment as she forced her legs to keep moving, to keep walking her across the car park, one two, one two, one two…

The airport was huge and white. Emma had never been inside one before, only heard about them from when Dixie or Perry or Frank told stories of their family holidays. It wasn’t as busy as Emma had been expecting, but she supposed that came with the late time. One of the huge electronic boards mounted above her said that it was twenty minutes past nine. The orange numbers and words displaying flights were boggling, and Emma gave up reading them. She knew all she needed – Portugal, ten o’clock, Portugal, ten o’clock.

Emma felt alone in the airport, and the beginning of a nasty, poisonous doubt was beginning to creep its way up her throat.

What if he had already checked in?

What if he was organised, against all the odds, and was already waiting to get on the plane?

Or, worst of all, what if he didn’t want to see her? What if he had moved on already, and was about to start a new chapter, without Emma - and was looking forward to it?

What if?

Emma felt a tear roll down her cheek.

This had been the worst idea she had ever come up with. Forget her scheming and meddling, her insistence on matchmaking and controlling other people’s business – this was far worse, because she had not considered the worst outcome. That he simply didn’t love her any more.

“Stupid.”

With a tightness in her chest, Emma turned around to walk back out of the huge entrance.

Then.

Then, oh then.

There he was.

The blonde hair that was too long again. The dimples and the blue eyes. He had a battered red suitcase and a huge backpack, he had under-packed as usual, Emma could tell from one look at him.

His arms were bare and pale from the cold, and she could see his jaw tighten.

He was there, right there, right in front of her. And, just like a romcom, just like Harriet had said, everything seemed to slow down. The lights dimmed, nobody moved, or talked, or breathed.

It was just Emma and George in the airport, staring.

Emma felt a gasp rise in her throat.

She saw George smile, and that was enough.

They were together again.

*

_Emma sidled over to the skinny boy. He was playing on some sort of device, a Nintendo or something, and was oblivious to the garden party going on around him. His parents, just like Emma’s had given up on introducing him to the hoarded of people many glasses of champagne ago, so the children were left to their own devices._

_“Hi.”_

_He looked up, blinking in the sun._

_“Hi.”_

_Emma cleared her throat and mustered up all her courage. “I don’t know who to sit with.”_

_For a moment, George looked slightly perturbed. Then he put down his device and patted the chair next to him._

_“You can sit with me.”_

_Primly, Emma sat down. She smiled at the skinny boy._

_“I’m Emma, if you forgot my name.”_

_He grinned crookedly. “I remember. My mum wants us to be friends.”_

_“Mine too.”_

_“Do you remember my name?”_

_“Yes. George.”_

_After a moment’s pause, George stuck out his hand in an awkward, self-conscious way._

_“Here’s to being friends.”_

_Emma giggled and shook his bony hand._

_“To being friends.”_

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my lovelies
> 
> well... the end!
> 
> sorry i left you all on tenterhooks for a while, my health hasn't been great recently so it's been difficult to sit down with my laptop and write - but i guess it all adds to the suspense!
> 
> i hope this is an adequate ending; in all honesty, i had been planning a last minute airport dash scene from the start, because it's such a silly cliche but i love it! it just felt right somehow, so i hope it worked for all of you!
> 
> i wanted to say thank you to ALL of my readers, you have been wonderful. reading all the lovely comments on this fic has been an amazing experience, i have so enjoyed all of the kind words and feedback - i never thought that people would become so invested in this story, but i am beyond happy and grateful about it. this has by far been my favourite fic that i have ever written, made better by you lovely lot.
> 
> as always, huge amounts of love to you all, you are all wonderful <3


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